


Return to the Happy Helg - Part One

by Salchat



Series: The Happy Helg [2]
Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Aftermath of mission gone wrong, Angst, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, Friendship, Gen, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, John Sheppard Whump, Team
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-20
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:53:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 25,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22814956
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salchat/pseuds/Salchat
Summary: After a traumatic mission, John and the team spend some time at the Happy Helg to rest and recuperate.  How will each of them handle their physical and mental recovery?  How will the people (and animals) of their favourite hostelry help them to heal?
Series: The Happy Helg [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638304
Comments: 6
Kudos: 12





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have decided to split this story into two parts, because this first bit is really a kind of extended introduction; it could either have been summarised in a few paragraphs, or I could have gone on writing for a good few more chapters, letting the characters wander around and have a nice time, or get into trouble, as the case often is... Anyway, this part deals mainly with the aftermath of a 'mission gone wrong' and sets the team up for the next part, which will deal with more action/adventure and, if I've got anything to do with it (which sometimes I'm not sure about), there'll be some nice cosy bits to round it off. Probably. I hope you enjoy it!

_He took one spoonful of the thin, greasy stew, and then just one more, before passing the spoon on. It was grasped by quick eager hands, that dipped and ate and dipped and ate until the next in line began to protest and a general twittering discontent forced the eater to relinquish the precious implement, passing it on and following its progress with huge, hungry eyes. John didn't stay in line like the rest, hoping there would be some dregs left in the bucket when everybody had had a turn; there never were. Anyway, he tried to take as little as possible; the minimum to sustain life. There were those that needed it more. He eased himself painfully down in his usual spot; not that it could be distinguished in any way from any other area of the concrete cell, but it was where he sat, or lay, so he returned to it automatically, without thought._

_The stew was soon finished and the cell returned to its customary torpid silence, broken by the occasional cry or sob or soft whimpering. They didn't understand, most of them, John knew, and he wasn't going to explain; it would just add to their misery. Many of the faces were blank, uncomprehending, some were sure there had been some kind of mistake. Those that had initially called out and beaten on the door had soon been roughly suppressed by the guards._

_John hadn't seen his team since he'd woken up in the cell, but he guessed their situation was the same. He could only wait and hope, the hunger a desperate, living thing inside him, clawing and twisting with relentless need. But it was the knowledge he held that hurt more, that made him want to throw up the food that was only just keeping him alive; the knowledge that had led to his and his team's imprisonment, along with all of these sad, betrayed people, and left them destined, unless rescue came, to share the same fate._

oOo

In the fresh, clear air of a summer's morning, when the sun was yet pale in the sky and the soft hooting of the fela birds in the shadowed woodland spoke gently of the day's promise, Lillaina Holden, landlady of the Happy Helg, wiped the dew off the tables and set the chairs straight. The outdoor tables were popular, especially on summer evenings, when Tamfar Holden, landlord of the establishment, would plant tall iron torches in the ground to give light to the convivial groups, and to keep away the tilly flies, and their customers would relax in the cool, smoky, flower-scented night.

Lil straightened the last group of chairs, with her usual brisk efficiency, gave a characteristic little nod of satisfaction, and was about to bustle off to make a start on her day's food preparation, when the sound of the wind in the treetops increased suddenly. Lil looked up, and was pleased to see one of the Atlanteans' little ships cruise into view. What did they call them? Puddlejumpers! She clasped her hands together in pleasurable anticipation. Lil hadn't seen any of the original party since their eventful visit last midwinter. She knew the trading agreement was working out well, a regular batch of helgen being driven through the Gate to Catosia, bound, eventually for the Ancient City, whose location was a closely guarded secret. In exchange, medical supplies were delivered, amongst other useful items. Lil's favourite were the little coloured toothbrushes and fine sewing needles and thread, but the chemicals that made the tanning process easier and the disinfectants were also very welcome.

The Puddlejumper landed a little way from the pub and the hatch lowered. For a moment, nobody came out, but Lil heard a female voice asking somebody to "Wait here." It didn't sound like Teyla, or the leader, Elizabeth. The woman that strode confidently down the ramp had blonde hair, drawn back in a ponytail. She had a pleasant, determined face, but when she saw Lil and smiled, she conveyed such open friendliness and enthusiasm that Lil found herself naturally grinning back.

"Hi! I'm Colonel Samantha Carter," she said, striding forward, her hand held out.

"Lillaina Holden, but please, call me Lil!" They shook hands.

"Thank you, Lil. Call me Sam."

"It's good to see someone from Atlantis," Lil continued. "John's not with you?"

"No," Sam replied, her expression suddenly serious. "Is there somewhere we can talk? If you have time. You must be busy, running this place!"

"Nothing that won't keep," Lil assured her. "We'll go into the kitchen and I'll make some tea." _And I can find out what trouble has come to Atlantis, she thought._

oOo

"I can't believe it," Lil gasped. She looked stunned. "That nice doctor and Elizabeth too. Both such lovely people. They must be very much missed!"

"They are," Sam said softly.

"Terrible thing," said Tam, shaking his head. He had left his restocking of the bars when Lil had introduced him to Sam and stood, leaning against the kitchen table, his wife and the new leader of Atlantis sitting in the chairs by the kitchen fire.

Sam continued, her blue eyes earnest and appealing. "But that's not all. I recently sent Colonel Sheppard and his team on a mission to a people we were hoping would become allies against the Wraith."

Tam and Lil listened intently, first with interest at the insight into the lives of their friends, and then, as Sam continued, with disquiet, then with sadness and shock. Tam, peace-loving and unadventurous though he knew himself to be, felt an impulse to snatch the weapon that hung above the bar and storm through the Gate to seek bloody retribution. His wife stood and wandered away from the fire to face away from her husband and visitor, one hand to her mouth, her lips pressed tightly together. She stopped and he saw her run her fingers along the surface of the table, seeking comfort in its wooden familiarity. Her shoulders rose and fell as she took several deep breaths and Tam, recognising that his wife needed a moment to compose herself, waved a gently suppressing hand at Sam, who looked as if she were about to rise or speak. Lil turned and her face still reflected her sorrowful compassion, but now it was overlaid with the zeal to be useful.

"What can we do?"

oOo

Ronon was angry; constantly, relentlessly, drainingly angry. Everything made him angry, from the forced inactivity of the past couple of weeks, to the stupidity he felt now, sitting on the bench, being transported like a helpless passenger, or some inanimate package, with Lorne's team up front being their babysitters; and what made him especially angry was looking around at the faces of his team. That made him more angry than anything, so that he couldn't speak without shouting and didn't want to speak anyway and wouldn't, no matter what anyone tried. He wasn't angry with them, just the way they looked, even after however long it was since they'd got back from... He wouldn't think about that place.

None of them had been particularly injured, well not more than a couple of knocks and scrapes and sprains and the odd clip from a bullet, none of which Ronon classified as significant. But they'd all separately made the same choice, in their separate prison cells; to allow others, more frail, more innocent than themselves to eat, while they had starved. Ronon was angry with his own body for being weak, and angry because he knew his team were in the same condition, and none of them seemed to be making a particularly good job of recovering, with the possible exception of Teyla, though Ronon wasn't sure even about her, because she didn't come out of her room much. He knew McKay would gorge himself on as much food as he could get, but then turn a nasty shade of gray-green and slip discretely away, so Ronon guessed not much of it was staying put. Ronon himself was eating but was running for most of each day and hiding the fact from Dr Keller. John seemed to take just two bites of anything and look guilty and leave the rest; and he ran with Ronon, which wasn't helping. They ran, together, silently, complicit in their understanding that nobody else needed to know.

oOo

Lil was in the barn when she heard the swish of air that heralded the Puddlejumper's arrival. She threw the rest of the scraps into Franca's box, but didn't stay to scratch the helg between her ears as she normally did, earning herself a squeal of disapproval. She dumped the bucket in the kitchen and hurried through the parlour and out of the front door. Tam had beaten her to it and the ramp was already lowered, but her husband half raised a hand and shook his head to prevent her moving forward. The sound of a heated dispute came from inside the Jumper; heated on one side at least, because Lil was surprised to hear John's voice raised in protest and a lower voice replying, placating but firm. Two men Lil hadn't met before trotted down the ramp, carrying two large packs each, followed by Teyla, Rodney and Ronon, and then John, who was still grumbling and she identified the words, "Could've carried our own kit," which he hurled over his shoulder to whoever remained in the little ship.

The two strangers acknowledged her and Tam and then headed straight inside when Tam directed them to take the packs up and leave them at the head of the stairs. John and his team stood, looking awkward. It wasn't the happy arrival that Lil had hoped for and she wasn't sure how to act. Presumably they knew that their new leader had visited her and Tam, and had told them what had happened; she couldn't pretend she didn't know, and yet she didn't want to embarrass them with any overt displays of concern. Tam came to the rescue, with a handshake and a blunt, "Welcome back," for each of the four and then they were moving inside and Tam was directing them to the rooms they'd first occupied and Lil felt she'd fallen at the first hurdle. She went back to the kitchen to prepare some food; that at least, she could do, and it was more than obvious that the team were in dire need of some good home cooking.

_The main thing that's wrong with this scene_ , thought John, idly sorting through the contents of his pack, as he sat on his bed, _is that McKay's not complaining._ He looked at Rodney, who was throwing items out of his pack and onto his bed with jerky, impatient movements. He hadn't complained about the heat, and the room was like an oven, whereas in midwinter it had been an icebox, even with the fire lit. He hadn't complained that they were crammed, three to a room again, when they all knew there was the other room that Ronon and Carson had shared when they'd visited for the festival. He wasn't complaining now, when there was clearly something he couldn't find or hadn't brought.

Ronon had gone, abandoned his pack where it was and left the room, probably to go running. He shouldn't have gone without saying where he was going, but seven years a runner meant that solitary running was his default setting in times of stress.

John found what he was looking for; his knife, so that he could cut another hole in his belt, because his jeans kept threatening to fall down. Carter had insisted on civvies because, initially at least, they were on vacation, medical leave, whatever; but all his clothes seemed too big. He unthreaded his belt, carefully punctured it with the tip of his knife and put it back on. Much better. He realised that Rodney was watching him.

"Want me to do yours?" John asked, waggling his knife.

"Please." Rodney pulled off his belt and handed it to John. He sat down on his bed amid the chaos he'd created. "I don't know how to handle this," he said, blankly.

John, head down, judging where to make the new hole, didn't answer.

"I don't know what to do with myself, how to think, how to..." he waved his hands futilely, "be!"

John turned his hand, pressing gently, and flicked out a tiny piece of leather with his knife tip. He handed the belt back.

"I guess we just keep going, same as always," he said.

Rodney gave an unsatisfied grunt, struggling to get his belt back through the loops of his pants. He drew it in and buckled it. Much better.

"Thanks."

oOo

Ronon ran; a quick, hard, pounding along the margin of the road, because the centre had dried in ankle-twisting ruts. His body ran and his heart and mind also, and the only difference between his inner and outer selves was that in his heart and mind he killed as he ran. He killed and killed with swift, brutal, soul-scouring anger and hate and grief, and neither his mind nor his heart flinched from his bloody vengeance. On and on in shade or bright morning sun, as the road wound about the shape of the land. He did not enter the forest because the trees would slow him down, and if he slowed down the killing would stop and the faces would appear and he didn't want to see them, couldn't bear to see them, didn't know how to deal or where to go with the feelings that they would bring. He ran and knew that he would keep running until his body failed or his mind outran his pain. 


	2. Chapter 2

It was all just the same. The grenza-hunting pictures on the wall, the knifeboard in the corner, the scent of beer and cooking, old timber and woodsmoke. Rodney had been surprised the fire was lit, but actually, it remained quite cool in the pub, compared to the heat of the summer's day, which must, he thought, be due to the thickness of the stone walls. Although, it had been sweltering upstairs, the heat rising and collecting under the insulation of the thatched roof. They'd have to sleep with the window open and poisonous bugs would probably get in. And there was the nightmare issue; Rodney woke every night, in various states of panic and he bet John did too. Ronon probably remained silent, though, his years as a runner having trained him out of any habit which might give away his presence.

Tam entered the bar and began filling a jug from one of the barrels.  
"Lunch in the parlour," he said, succinctly.

"Oh, yes. Thanks," said Rodney. He was hungry. Always hungry, in fact. He didn't remember being brought back from that awful place and Keller said he'd been severely hypoglycaemic, which wasn't surprising, really. Now, though, Rodney's relationship with food had become very complicated, as if his experience had trained him to react badly to it, like a reverse Pavlov's dog, he thought, which conjured up an image of a dog walking backward, which Rodney knew should be funny.  
Anyway, he would try, because not enjoying food was ridiculous and took a lot of the pleasure out of life. Rodney told himself, quite sternly, that he would eat a sensible amount, until he was just full and then stop. How hard could it be?

oOo

Lil had set out lunch in the parlour and, one by one, like hesitant furrens emerging from their burrows, her guests had come in and seated themselves around the table; except for Ronon, who Tam had observed running off down the track toward Fren's place soon after they had arrived. It was strange to see them not in uniform, their colours easier upon the eye than the normal blacks and greys they wore. They were all much too thin, however; gaunt, really, and it was all Lil could do not to set out everything she had in her kitchen and stand over them while they ate. But that nice lady, Sam, had forewarned her to tread carefully and so Lil had prepared a small, but carefully chosen buffet of cut-up fruit, small cubes of cheese, fresh white rolls with butter and some tiny honey cakes. And they could choose between tea, which Lil knew Teyla usually preferred, and the first of Tam's latest brew, which was a pleasant light golden ale, very slightly flowery and with just a hint of a fizz.  
When Lil returned to clear away, she wasn't entirely happy with the amount left over, but at least it looked like they had all eaten something. Teyla had already gone. Lil had seen her pass by the kitchen window, heading for the barn, and wondered if she was going to talk to Franca. As Lil stacked the plates on her tray, she noticed that John's eyes kept straying to the mantelpiece, where the funny little helg ornaments were displayed. He stood up, picked one up and looked at it, frowning and sucking in his lower lip.

"Do you like them?" Lil asked, with surprise.

He gave a little huff of bitter laughter. "Not really, no. Carson liked them. They reminded him of his mom."

"I didn't know that!" said Rodney.

John shrugged and carefully returned the ornament to its place.

"Take one, if you like. When you go," she offered.

"Really?"

"Yes, of course."

"We could put it in the infirmary," said Rodney.

"Thanks," said John.

"Actually," Lil said, hesitantly, "We were wondering if you could give us a copy of the verses that the doctor recited at the Festival?"

"Address to a haggis!" said Rodney.

"Yes," she continued. "And then, every year, we could read it out, so it would become a tradition."

"Oh." Rodney sounded wistfully pleased. "Yes. Good idea. Carson would've liked that."

oOo

Teyla sat on the floor in the middle of the barn, cross-legged, her hands with palms uppermost, fingers lightly curled with thumbs and forefingers touching, resting on her knees. She breathed slowly and deeply through her nose, so slowly that the rise and fall of her chest was barely perceptible. Her serene countenance was, however, marred by just the tiniest suggestion of a frown, the only indication that her meditation was not proceeding as it should. Her thoughts would not settle, her mind teemed with images; unsettling, disturbing images of remembered horror and suffering. She tried to accept her thoughts, calmly acknowledge their presence and imagine them drifting away like clouds, while she returned her attention to her breathing, but whereas the stillness of her body normally allowed her mind to become still also, today that was not the case. With her body and mind both unoccupied, the anguish of her recent experiences crowded in, like a flock of black birds, their wings beating and beaks and claws tearing at her hard-won peace of mind.

Teyla let her posture sag and massaged her tense forehead with one hand. She had once heard Rodney use the rather disturbing phrase, 'flogging a dead horse,' with regard to an Ancient device that Dr Zelenka was fruitlessly trying to fix. Teyla decided that the words applied equally to her efforts at meditation. She opened her eyes, raised her head and blinked against the harsh, white glare reflecting off the baked-hard dirt of the yard. A hot breeze sent scraps of straw skittering across the dry surface, but from further away, past the wooden fence and beyond the rise of the land, came a rushing sound, as the high boughs of the forest caught the wind.

Teyla found herself moving, as if compelled by an unseen force, across the farmyard, through the gate and up the slope, pushing through the soft growth of tall perennials and the scraping, twiggy branches of berry bushes, her movements becoming more abrupt and urgent as the undergrowth caught on her clothes and impeded her progress. She felt increasingly as if the forest were calling, as a mother calls out her love and protection to her child, and Teyla felt a sob rise in her throat as she remembered how she would run, in her grief, to the forests of Athos and find solace wrapped in their shady green depths, during that awful time after her mother had been taken by the Wraith.

She reached the treeline and followed a narrow path between the small coppices of the forest edge, their branches thin and close, their habitual growth in clumps like family groups, the bright spaces between, populated by grasses and smaller bushes. Teyla trod carefully but swiftly, because she needed the agelessness of the forest interior, its wisdom, and the depths of its ancient roots. The trees grew taller and their overlapping branches caught the light and held it high above, so that there was little left to nourish low-growing things and Teyla's path became easier. Her pace slowed and she felt her muscles relax beneath heat-tightened skin. She brought both hands up and massaged the back of her neck and then raised them above her head and stretched as she walked, feeling the cooler humidity caressing her, relaxing her, wrapping her in its slow-growing peace. Bird-calls echoed between the high-arching trees and Teyla knew that, even blindfolded, she would have been able to tell the season by sound alone. When she was last here, in the winter, the leafless trees had released vibrations to the sky and voices and movements had appeared close, short and crisp. Then the snow had fallen and damped the freezing air further, so that words seemed to leave the lips of the speaker and fall straight down to the softly-covered ground. But now, with the canopy in full leaf, in this high-pillared cathedral of the mature forest, bird-calls reverberated back and forth with a sweet, sustained richness and even the snap of a twig had volume and depth.

Teyla wandered here and there in the pathless wood, allowing her senses to fill her mind with sight and scent and sound, using the fullness to bring peace, where usually she would clear her mind of distraction. The ground rose and then fell and Teyla walked slowly on and down, stepping lightly, leaving barely an imprint on the ground, even where it became damp as she approached a stream. The water had worn a shallow channel through the trees, and Teyla climbed down the muddy bank until she stood on a tiny, rocky shore. The bright green, leafy branches met above the line of the stream, creating a tunnel of cool air and muted shades, highlighted here and there where a stray sunbeam penetrated the canopy and made scattered jewels on the burbling water. Teyla sank to her knees on the sharp, gritty shingle and placed her hot hands in the cold, still water, where an eddy had created a small pool. Her hands sank into the silt and the clear water became clouded with pale brown swirls as she pressed them down further. She curled her fingers into the soft surface and felt tiny bits of grit push up under her nails, but she grasped harder until she was squeezing handfuls of mud, and she lifted her closed fists up before her face and watched it run out from between her fingers and down her arms and drip back into the water. Teyla placed her hands in the pool again and leant forward, waiting for the surface to still until she could see her reflection amid the dull brown of the silt and the golden tan of her hands. A drop fell, and she watched its ripples spread. Then another drop and another and Teyla's tears mingled with the stream and were taken away, far away, through forest and field and fen to some far distant shore, where they would meet and recognise the salt of the ocean.

oOo

Fren was carrying out some repair work to the boundary wall of his farm. The walls were made of dry stones, carefully fitted together and had to be tall and broad to keep the helgen in, although Fren didn't see why the creatures had to break out quite so frequently; surely one bit of forest was very much like another? This latest assault, which had fortunately been stopped in its tracks before the wall collapsed completely, had been a sustained and co-ordinated attack by a group of adolescent helgets, simply for the sheer devilry of it, as far as Fren could tell. He could hear their grunts and squeals coming from the other side of the wall, taunting him or possibly just planning their next escape attempt.

Fren caught another noise; something approaching along the track that bordered his farm. A heavy, slightly uncoordinated tread, which sounded like someone running to the point of exhaustion. Fren stood and peered through the thin band of trees which separated his wall from the track. He caught a glimpse of a tall figure, clad in shades of brown, which camouflaged him against the dusty track and the dull brown trunks. Fren took a couple of steps and called out.

"Hey, there!"

The figure's head turned, he faltered, tripped and fell, full-length onto the unforgiving baked-hard ground. Fren winced in sympathy and stepped down the shallow slope and onto the road. He recognised the man now, from his hair at least, because he still lay, face down in the road; was he stunned?

"Ronon?" said Fren, crouching down. "Sorry, lad, didn't mean to fright you, there!" There was a slight grunt and a twitch, but he made no move to get up. His breaths came in great, wheezing gasps and Fren thought he'd lost quite a bit of weight. Fren considered. He'd heard their trading partners had had their troubles over the past half year, and it was possible Ronon needed someone to pick him up off the road and look after him, but that was more Grella's kind of thing and, anyway, Fren didn't think Ronon would react very well to being mothered. _I'd likely end up with a punch in the face_ , thought Fren, without rancour. He decided on a different approach; he was, after all, as a father of four, a man of great resource and multiple strategies, not least of which was finding a far distant boundary wall to repair when it all got too much.

"It's good you happened along," he remarked to the still prone figure. "I've a tricky bit of repair work to do, and some help'd be handy right about now," he continued gesturing uselessly toward the wall and wondering if Ronon was going to get around to hauling himself up any time soon. "Though, I reckon it's about time for a bite and a sup, which you're welcome to share if you've a mind." There was no response, although the gasping breaths had calmed and Fren knew Ronon was listening. "I'll be over there, then," he said, with another futile gesture.

Fren hopped back up the bank, selected a flat stone to sit on and, having wiped his hands on his equally dirty pants, took a cloth-wrapped bundle and an earthenware jar from his pack. He took the cork stopper out of the jar and drank, then sighed with satisfaction and wiped his mouth on his shirtsleeve.

"Good stuff, that," he remarked, ignoring Ronon's limping scramble through the trees. He held out the jar, wordlessly. Ronon sat down, carefully, on a stone, his legs crossed before him. He took the jar and drank, slowly at first and then in several great gulps. Fren was glad it was a big jar. He opened the cloth bundle and spread it out on the ground between them, trying to look as though he hadn't noticed the bleeding cuts showing through the torn knees of Ronon's pants or the slight trembles of exhaustion that ran through his frame. Fren was reminded of an injured priss he'd encountered one day, how he'd had to ignore it, and just walk very slowly back to the farm, followed by its softly-limping tread. He'd let it in the barn and put out some food for it and in a day or two it had recovered and gone back into the woods.

Grella had packed some meat and cheese and some small flat loaves which she made with traga root and some of the heavy, gritty flour that they got through trade, because grain didn't do well round here. The loaves could have substituted for the stones he was using to repair the wall, but they were certainly filling; sometimes he dipped them in beer to soften them. He did so now, tearing off a chunk of bread and dunking it in the jar, up and down a few times and then bringing it, dripping, to his mouth. Ronon hesitated, then copied.

"It's a while since you were here last," commented Fren. "Mads'll be pleased." Ronon's chewing paused slightly, then continued. Fren wasn't worried about the lack of response. If he knew his eldest daughter, Maddy, she'd soon elicit some kind of reaction, even if it was just a roar of anger. "Half a year since the Midwinter Festival, and the years here are longer than most, they tell me; I'm never sure how that can be." He laughed. "I just know that a little bitty newborn babe turns into a running menace by a year's end!"

They ate in silence, until the food and the beer were all gone, then Fren stood up and calmly began selecting a stone to fit the next space in the wall. Ronon, sitting behind him, was silent, but after a while, Fren heard him get up and begin sorting through the loose stones. He picked one up and placed it on the wall, jiggling it a bit to check the fit, as Fren had been doing.

"That looks steady," commented Fren. There was no answer, but Ronon carried on working alongside him and Fren, who was indeed a wise man, thought that there wasn't much a meal, a job of work and some undemanding company wouldn't fix, in time.


	3. Chapter 3

She woke suddenly in the dark and did not need to be able to see to know instantly the positions and the identity of those around her. They slept through the heat of the day, as she should also, but some intangible essence, some faint taste on the air, had woken her. She rose and moved silently and felt thin tendrils of hot air pierce the cool darkness and, as if they caught in her fur and pulled her, she followed them toward the light. She stood, in the rock-shaded gloom and looked upon the familiar glade, as generations of her kind had looked before. All was as it should be; the forest dull and heavy in the afternoon heat, no prey or predator stirring, the trees themselves seeming lifeless, waiting for the cool of the evening to breathe once more.

And yet, there was still that faint sense that something had changed; an alteration in the balance of life that was of particular significance to this Queen of the forest. She turned briefly back to the cave and hissed sharply. Two pairs of eyes blinked open and gleamed in the reflected light and their small forms rose drowsily and stumbled up the shallow, earthy slope to join her. She looked at them and judged them ready to accompany her. A warning glare and snarl and she set off, her two small shadows following.

With graceful economy on her part and the occasional skip and squeak on theirs, they made their way through the sleeping forest; she gave no thought to her route because the forest was an extension of herself and every rise and fall, every stream and clearing, were written in her mind as clearly as the outline of one of her paws. They came to the edge of the forest and looked down over the place where the tall ones dwelt; the queen of this place and her mate, the younger female and others that visited. She could smell meat and smoke and the tall ones' own distinctive scents. She sat, motionless, amongst the trees, and knew that, unless she moved, she could not be seen. She hissed at her companions and they stopped their fidgeting and mimicked her stillness, one on either side. They waited. The queen emerged and plucked some leaves and then went back in. Her mate came around the edge of the dwelling, carrying some wood and other items. He blocked off a hole in the fence, accompanied by loud bangs, which startled her attendants, then he too went back into the dwelling.

Her eyes, caught by movement, flicked to one of the other entrances. Someone else was coming out and she knew it was him: the one who had not only acknowledged her status as Queen and shown her the proper respect, but whose sky-coloured eyes had also shone with love and an eagerness to be loved, which he seemed to veil from his own kind. His voice could be sharp and cruel as a claw, or soft and yielding as new-cleaned fur; he conquered his fears to protect his clan, but he would also play as if he were new to the world. 

He went into the tiny house and she growled at her shadows to stay amid the trees while she slowly descended the slope, leapt lightly over the low stone wall, and selected a broad, flat slab, shaded by the tall building, and arranged herself, erect, tail curled neatly around her toes.

She could hear his voice, low and brittle and, although he generally snarled and snapped as a part of his normal speech, she sensed that this was different. His scent was also not quite right. The door banged open and his head was bowed, a hand shading his eyes against the sun; he didn't see her. Then he stepped into the shade of the dwelling and lowered his arm. She twitched an ear, ever-so-slightly; his eyes darted to her position and she saw his recognition. He stopped. He looked away, not meeting her eyes, and she was confused. Then he looked again, stumbled toward her a couple of steps and then dropped to his knees amid the earth and growing things, as if his legs wouldn't support him. She relaxed her queenly pose, and, in one bound, reached him and wrapped him round with her body and pushed her face into him and drank in his scent, which spoke to her of pain and suffering and near-despair. She felt his arms around her, gripping her, and releasing and gripping again, and they both knew that this was no way to greet a queen, but she allowed it, because he was in need. She felt wetness seep through the layers of her fur to dampen her skin where he had pressed his face against her and she heard his voice, quiet with grief, and pleading like a lost young one in the night.

She pulled back and he sat, watching her, looking like a heap of fallen rock, heavy with sadness. She called out and saw two lines of shaking undergrowth come down the slope and then two small forms emerged, scrambling over the wall and cautiously approaching, scared, but trusting their Queen and mother. She drew herself up and pushed out her chest with pride. Her blue-eyed subject, who she had learnt to call Rodney, after the manner of his kind, turned to her and smiled.

oOo

Grella had heard about the Atlanteans' troubles; the loss of the kind and funny Dr Beckett, who'd been so popular at the Midwinter Festival with his pudding-inspired recitation and their leader, Elizabeth, who Grella remembered pink-cheeked and laughing in the snow, wearing her leadership lightly, and yet giving the impression of one who could quell with a look, as Grella might bring her team of helgen into line with the slightest twitch of a rein. There had been other troubles too; exactly what had happened, Grella wasn't sure and she knew that John Sheppard would be unlikely to tell her, even under extreme pressure, which she wouldn't apply.

Having completed the bulk of her day's work, and set a stew on the low heat of her stove, Grella tidied her hair, fastening it back in one long, chestnut braid. She hesitated over whether to change her skirt, but decided she'd only get dusty anyway, so better stick with the dust-coloured one. She changed her blouse, though, and put on a broad-brimmed straw hat and then set off alone for the Happy Helg; alone, that is, apart from little Penda, slung on her back. Maddy had agreed to watch Tallen and Ellet as they played in the farmyard, enthusiastically drawing a bucket of water from the well so that they could make some mud. 

Grella pulled up in a patch of shade before the pub, climbed down from the high driving seat and tipped half a sack of traga roots on the ground for the helgen to eat. She made her way inside, taking off her hat, untying the fabric of the sling and sliding Penda round into her arms as she entered the parlour. There was somebody sitting in the nearer settle, next to the low summer fire; she could see boots and long legs stuck out before him. He must have heard her enter, but didn't move to peer round the end of the settle to see who had come in. Grella adjusted her grip on the squirming Penda (she always insisted on facing outward and had from a newborn), crossed the room and sat down on the far settle. John looked up, startled out of his reverie.

"Oh," he said, visibly pulling himself back to the present. "Grella, um... Hi."

"Hello, John," she said, taking in his pallor, his shadowed eyes and gaunt frame. She wouldn't ask him and he wouldn't volunteer anything; that was certain. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," he said, with a false dawn of a smile. "And who's this? Is this...?" He mimed the bump that Penda had been as he had last seen her.

"Yes! This is Penda!" Grella bent her head so that she was on a level with the baby's chubby face. "Look, Penda, this is John," she said. Penda burbled obligingly. John smiled and waved. _If there's one thing guaranteed to anchor you in the present, it's a baby_ , she thought. She stood up, and before John could protest, plonked Penda in his lap. "At least you have two working hands this time," she said, referring to his long-healed grenza-hunting injury.

"Huh, yeah," agreed John, looking as if he felt like six hands wouldn't be enough to contain the wriggling Penda. "Other kids okay?"

She nodded and smiled. "Happy as helgen."

There was silence, apart from Penda's crows and squeaks.

"Are you here for long?" she asked.

John shrugged. "A week or two, anyway. We're going to take a look at the mountains."

She frowned questioningly.

"That story about the old witch; there might be some Ancient ruins, or something," he said, without much interest.

"The children's tale?" She laughed, gently. "Well, you never know, I suppose. We don't have cause to go there. You will be careful, won't you?"

"You know me, always cautious," he said, with a flash of his normal mischief.

They were silent again. Penda began playing with her toes. John bounced his knee up and down and the baby giggled. Grella smiled, glad that John seemed to be relaxing. Then she realised his knee had stopped bouncing and he was completely still. She looked at his white face and his expression was rigid, blank, just a muscle in his jaw twitching. Suddenly he picked Penda up, rose and thrust her, swiftly but not ungently, back into Grella's arms, and the garden door was slamming behind him before she had a chance to react. She sat still for a moment, looking at her baby, unsure how to react. John had looked stricken, with shock and, she thought, guilt; but what had triggered his emotions, and what should she do? He was a very private man and perhaps it would be best to let him deal with things in his own way, or let him rely on the support of his team, the people that knew him best. No, Grella decided, left to his own devices, John would merely hide his bad feelings and let them fester, and, as for his team, where were they? Off, dealing with their own problems, presumably.

Grella tucked Penda beneath her arm, facing outward as usual, and ventured out into the kitchen garden. The clumps of leaves and tall stalks were green and lush in the afternoon sun and had partly overgrown the path and obscured her view of the low wall right at the back, so that at first Grella didn't see John. Then, a shifting tuft of dark hair caught the light; she picked her way down the path, around the outhouse and carefully stepped past the crops growing close up to the wall. She sat down next to him and swung her legs around so that she faced the same way, toward the forest.

John stared at his boots unseeingly, his hands gripping the edge of the stones to either side, his shoulders sagging. She sat and waited. His breath hitched once or twice, as if he were about to speak, but no words came out. Grella wondered if she should put a hand on his. Should she say something, give him an opening, start him off? Or, did he actually want her to go? Penda grabbed at her shawl and tugged. Grella absently arranged her clothes so that the baby could feed, still looking at John.

"We... um... we went to this place... through the Gate," John began, hesitantly, still staring at his boots. "There was a city; big, developed, and, well, you just don't see that, do you?"

He stopped. Penda smiled, dribbling milk out of the corner of her mouth, then continued to feed. Insects chirped on regardless, and time seemed to slow in the hot, still air.

"They seemed friendly, and we thought... we thought they could help us. They must have some defence, some weapon to use against the Wraith."

John closed his eyes and Grella imagined he was reliving memories in his head.

"Except they didn't. They said, 'Wraith? No, they don't come here!'" John laughed, humourlessly. "So, as usual, we poked around, went where we weren't supposed to, found out what was really going on." He stopped again and put his hands over his face and then pushed them back through his hair. "They caught us, held us prisoner for a while. It... wasn't good." Narrow lines appeared between his brows and around his mouth and Grella knew there were some things he wouldn't speak of. "There was a resistance movement we'd made contact with, and Sam, Colonel Carter, got together with them, broke us out. They brought down the regime, but, now they're the same as anyone else. Thousands, millions of people. They'll be culled soon, if they haven't already been."

He paused and glanced at Grella, sideways. Penda was still feeding, her tiny toes waving.

"We shoulda seen it coming," John mumbled, bitterly. "We shoulda known. Cos there was this other place, Olesia, where they gave their prisoners to the Wraith, and when there weren't enough prisoners, they just went ahead and convicted more people; innocent, guilty, they didn't care, they all got the same sentence. Only this place, they'd thought to themselves, 'Who's of least value? Who can we afford to lose?'" John's voice was rough with raw, venomous anger. "So they chose the powerless people, the people that they were there to protect: the very old, anyone who wasn't... who... " He glanced at Grella and her baby once more and she saw his eyes fall on Penda's toes; the toes on her too small right foot, where there should have been five, but were only three.

Grella's arms curled protectively round her baby. John was breathing fast, his eyes closed, and she did not want to see the images in his mind.

"Only that's not all," he ground out. "That's not all, because there weren't enough. There are never enough for the damn Wraith, so every so often they put something in the water supply, so that..."

Grella put a hand on his arm. "John, stop." She could see a hint of moisture escaping from behind his tightly closed eyes and his breathing was fast and shallow. "John, I know, I know now, you can stop."


	4. Chapter 4

Sweat ran down Rodney's face and he could feel his hair sticking damply to his scalp. He peeled the front of his t-shirt away from his body and flapped it back and forth in an attempt to create a breeze. He was alone and the forest was silent.

"That's it! I give up!" He sat down heavily on a tuft of dried grass that looked like it might not be too uncomfortable and then immediately leapt to his feet as he encountered some hidden spines. "Ow, what the...?" Rodney rubbed the injured area, crossly, and then shouted, "I said I give up! You can come out now!" He turned round, scanning the edges of the forest clearing, and started in surprise as he found the three animals, only a couple of yards distant, their golden eyes calmly regarding him.

"How did you get there? Creeping up on me! Like... hm... like stealthy wild animals, I suppose." Boudicca and her two... kittens (what was a baby priss called anyway?), continued to stare at him, as if expecting him to provide some kind of wisdom, or possibly entertainment. "Look, that was fun, but I'm hot and thirsty and, I guess lost, unless you show me the way out, so...?" Rodney waved his hands, helplessly. "Home? My home, not yours, because, caves or dens or whatever? Not your natural environment for an astrophysicist!"

When Sam had insisted that the team spend some time at the Happy Helg, Rodney had been confused about his feelings of ambivalence; on the one hand, his comfortable memories of the pub and the locals, especially his priss friend, had made him long to return, but there was a part of him that shied away from comfort and closeness, that felt maybe he didn't deserve any such thing. But, suddenly confronted with Boudicca's penetrating gaze, his contradictory thoughts had collapsed, as did he, and he had just given in to the simplicity of her presence. She had taken a firm mouthful of Rodney's 'Eat, Sleep, Astrophysics' t-shirt, (Rodney had once crossed out the 'sleep' using a permanent marker, in a moment of extreme pique, having been woken, yet again, to deal with a midnight emergency), and had ignored all his protests (he was tired, hungry (again), too hot, didn't have his sunscreen and, above all, didn't want to go into the forest) and simply dragged him along, reminding him a little of Sheppard. And, Rodney admitted, it had been fun, playing with the little fuzz-balls, although it might have been more fun somewhere more civilized, where there were refreshments and no thorns. But enough was enough.

Rodney folded his arms and set his chin in 'immovable object' mode. He imagined that if she could, Boudicca would have raised an eyebrow in his direction. As it was, she merely trotted off into the forest, her babies following obediently behind. They turned and looked at him as they passed.

"Yes, I know, fall into line or get left behind!" Rodney grumped, reluctantly accepting his new role as 'smallest kitten'; he supposed it must be a step up from the 'catnip-filled mouse' duties he'd taken on last midwinter.

oOo

Teyla had picked up the two straightest bits of fallen wood she could find and had been practising one of her familiar routines beneath the sheltering boughs on the bank of the stream. The forest had grounded her, centred her in the present, and yet filled her with awareness of seasons past and future. She felt she had begun to re-establish her own small place in the vastness of creation and was able to be thankful to whatever higher powers there were for the gift of her life as it was, and not how she might have wished it to be.

Her smooth movements and sequential thoughts were interrupted by a familiar voice. She brought her routine to a conclusion, took a moment to be still and aware, and then turned toward the source of the sound.

"This isn't the way! I should never have followed you; although, you didn't give me much choice, did you? Have you never heard of hypoglycaemia? Well, no, you haven't, but that's not the point! Oh! Teyla!"

"Rodney," she smiled. "I did not expect to see you here!"

"No. Neither did I."

Rodney looked hot and flustered and seemed, by the state of his clothes, to have fallen more than once. His companions had gone straight to the stream to drink, but then arranged themselves in a row. Teyla felt as if she'd been granted a royal audience. She crouched down and held out her hand. The two young animals hid behind their mother, whose fur, Teyla noticed was more sleek than it had been in the winter, and, instead of the contrasting patches of dark and light brown, her colours were more muted, so that she merged in with the dappled sunshine of the forest. Boudicca trod forward in a dignified manner and touched her forehead to Teyla's, in greeting. The two little ones were then bold enough to scamper up and sniff at Teyla's hand and she smiled and laughed as they patted at her fingers with their soft paws.

"They are beautiful!" said Teyla, and Boudicca acknowledged this truth with a flick of an ear and a gentle growl. "Have you given them names, Rodney?"

"No. I'm too hungry to think of any."

Teyla silently handed him her canteen and produced a Power bar from a pocket.

"Oh! Thank you!" Rodney drank, thirstily and then devoured the bar with workmanlike efficiency. "Um... Are you okay?"

"Yes, thank you, Rodney," replied Teyla, surprised by his thoughtfulness. "I have found the forest most beneficial in settling my thoughts. And you?"

"Oh, well, you know," he said, shrugging as he stuffed the empty wrapper in a pocket. "Apart from extremely low blood-sugar and numerous hiking-related injuries," he studied one scraped hand, carefully, "actually, yes, I think I'm kind of okay. For the moment."

"I am glad," she said, rising from her crouch.

"I don't suppose you know the way back, do you?"

Teyla felt Boudicca's eyes upon her and smiled; she felt a sudden kinship with this forest animal, knowing that her instincts had been marking the rise and fall of the land as she walked, noting the growth and habit of the trees and plants, and that these instincts would not fail her in this forest, or any other.

"Yes, Rodney, I know the way."

oOo

The shadows lengthened toward late afternoon and John and Grella still sat, side by side, on the garden wall. John wasn't sure if he felt better, having told Grella about the mission; talking was meant to help, but he found it usually just made him want to curl up with embarrassment, or shoot something, or simply walk away. He was pretty close to curling up with embarrassment, it probably wasn't a great idea to shoot something and he'd already walked away once; twice would just be rude, and he did like Grella. And Penda was cute, although John was glad she'd just thrown up milk all over her mom and not his shirt and jeans.

"Oh, well," Grella said, philosophically. "It'll dry pretty soon in this heat. "And I find, if it comes straight back up, it doesn't smell at all."

"Oh, right," John said, not sure what to make of that. "Uh... She'll be okay, won't she?"

"Yes, of course, babies do that all the time."

"No, I mean..."

"Oh, I see." Grella tickled Penda's malformed foot. "Yes. She will," she said, with conviction. "We look after our own."

"Sorry."

"You have nothing to be sorry about, John! I'm sure you did what you could." She hesitated. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want, but... did they really take little ones... for the Wraith?"

John sighed heavily, recalling breaking into the government building, gripping his P-90 tensely as McKay downloaded the records, his exclamations of horror increasing in intensity and frequency. Rodney had compared them to Nazis.

"When they first struck a deal with the Wraith, no. People volunteered. 'The most honourable sacrifice,' they called it. But then, after a while... I dunno. It's the usual thing, I guess. They pretended it was a lottery, but it was always the poor who were chosen, or refugees from Wraith-culled planets; people who couldn't afford bribes. And then they somehow started a culture of racial 'purity', so that gave them an excuse to pick on anyone different, or not what they said the 'ideal' should be."

"I can't believe that could happen," said Grella.

"It's happened before, it'll happen again," said John. "Play on people's fears, they'll go along with anything."

"How long..." Grella stopped.

John knew what she was asking. He turned his head away and picked at some loose stone chips in the wall.

"Uh... I don't know. I lost track. The lights were always on." He took a breath of the hot, heavy, summer-scented air. "When we were released, they said three weeks." He played with a chunk of mortar, breaking it into tiny pieces with his fingers. "It was a camp. A place where people were held. To be ready for the Wraith."

John glanced at Grella, her face serious and inward-looking, digesting the horror of what she'd been told; he could tell she knew that he was hiding the worst of his and his team's suffering. Her eyes met his, and she must have seen something in his gaze which made her lose her pensive air and sit up straighter.

"Has anyone ever told you about the decoys?" she said, briskly.

He frowned. "Decoys?"

"The decoy farms," she nodded. "You know we keep the farms spread wide apart? So, if the Wraith come, it's harder for them, and gives folks a chance to hide."

"Yeah."

"Well, we also have the decoy farms," she explained. "We all help to run them like normal farms, but we keep some helgen in the farmyard all the time and leave the house open, so they go in. And we try to keep a fire lit in the stove, too, so that when the Wraith come culling they get heat and life signs and they beam up whoever's there."

"And end up with a load of helgs," John said, imagining the scene.

"Yes, which is tough for the helgen, but better them than us," she said. "And we move around, so that the decoys change every so often."

"You move into a house where the animals have been living?"

"Well, yes, which isn't ideal, but," she shrugged, "it's what we do."

"When did they last come?"

"Three years back - our years are long, so I don't know what that is as you measure time." John shrugged. He'd ask Rodney. "Tirren's family were taken - the maid, who works here? Tam and Lil took her in. Others were taken, too, but once they'd had a couple of decoy farms there were no more Darts that day!"

John smirked, picturing Wraith being chased down the hallways of their hive ship by a pack of squealing helgs.

"They'll be back," he said.

"They will," she agreed, stoically. "And some of us will be taken and some will carry on. It's life."

oOo

Ronon followed behind Fren along the boundary wall, as he checked the structure here and there, replaced fallen stones, and pulled out plants that had rooted themselves in the gaps.

"Have the whole lot down, they will, said Fren, ripping out a firmly-anchored creeper. "Roots do as much damage as helgen, given time. And then there's the frost, which splits rock, in its own way."

It was simple, Ronon thought, the life of a farmer; jobs that you did, and then they were done, til next time, animals to feed and raise and eat. He had found some peace in the simple act of rebuilding the wall, and, for a moment, wondered what kind of person he'd be if he were a farmer. Would he have the wisdom of the land and things that grew, would he find security in the sure knowledge of the turn of the seasons? He'd never know, because he never could give up his fight against the Wraith. Sometimes, his sense of purpose, his vocation, made him feel proud and determined and, if not fearless, then undaunted by fear. At the moment, though, it seemed like a dark and depressing fate, and one which might prevent his ever experiencing the pleasures of life which came with home and hearth.

As if hearing Ronon's thoughts, Fren said, "Nearly there. The farm, that is. You'll come in for a bit?"

Ronon didn't reply, and Fren didn't press him for an answer. He wasn't sure if he wanted to see Fren's family, didn't know if he could deal with Maddy's questions and comments, but he found his feet continuing down the path, in Fren's wake, and then they went through a gate, and he still didn't stop, or turn aside. The farmhouse and buildings stood on a slight rise in the ground, arranged in a square, with the house to one side, outbuildings to two others and a high fence to the fourth; defensible if necessary. The trees hadn't been allowed to grow close up to the buildings, another point to its defensive advantage, and Ronon could see crops at various stages of growth in the little fields created in the clearing. Three small figures stood on different rungs of the yard gate. They were riding the gate until it banged shut and then the largest figure would jump off and run it open again and then they'd ride it once more. Ronon guessed they were Maddy, Tallen and Ellet but even as he came closer it was very difficult to tell, so coated with mud were they. Maddy stopped the game and ran out to greet her father. Ronon lurked behind him, but he knew she'd noticed him and wondered why she wasn't already telling him the latest news of her trapping, and dropping heavy hints for pickled eggs.

"What you bin doin', then Mads?" asked Fren. "You got my beer?"

"Makin' mud," she said, as if it were of no consequence. "Ma's gone to the pub. She told me to watch these 'uns," she said, a casual thumb over her shoulder indicating her brother and sister. "Ma'll get the beer."

"Ma'll get you, if you don't clean 'em up 'afore she gets back!"

Maddy grinned. "We'll go to the stream in a bit."

"You'd best go soon, or you'll set solid like little statues," said Fren, moving off toward the farmhouse.

Ronon hesitated. Maddy stood facing him. She wiped her face on her sleeve, revealing streaks of summer-freckled skin.

"Ronon," she said, solemnly, scratching the tip of her turned-up nose. Tallen and Ellet watched from their perches on the gate, their eyes big and round in their dirty faces. Maddy looked him up and down with a critical eye. Ronon thought she had little right to be critical, considering her own filthy appearance.

"Say something!" she demanded, emphasising her words with a hearty whack to his arm.

"What happened to your hair?" he said, without thinking.

She fingered her muddy locks, shorn to just below her earlobes, and her grin flashed white amidst the dirt.

"Got stuck in a thorn bush," she informed him. "Had to cut it with me knife. Ma cut it too, so it's all the same length now." She shrugged, then looked round at her brother and sister. "C'mon, you two," she directed. "Stream!" Maddy turned to Ronon and held out her hand. "Comin'?"

Ronon looked at the filthy appendage and then at Maddy's eyes, appealing yet unsure. She wiggled her fingers. His lips twitched in the shadow of a smile and he took her hand.


	5. Chapter 5

Tam had lit the torches already, Lil noticed, even though the sun was still hovering in red evening glory above the trees. He'd put on some of the resiny twigs which would help to keep the buzzers and biters away; the bitter green scent drifted out in smoky tendrils to mix with the night-sweetness of the flowers Lil had planted in tubs, set against the front wall of the pub. Lil set a small lantern on each of the tables and lit the candles inside. She heard movement behind her and turned to see John, hovering on the threshold, looking like he didn't know what to do with his hands; Lil wondered if it was because he was so used to holding a weapon, especially when away from his home city.

"It's strange," she said. "You not being in uniform. All that black must get boring, though."

He shrugged. "It saves having to think about it." She noticed him looking at the tables.

"Sit wherever you like. I'll bring dinner out soon. There're some helg steaks, some salad from the garden and some baked traga root."

"Sounds great," he said, enthusiastically, but with an air of expectancy.

"And a jug of ale?"

"Perfect!" he said.

"Won't be long."

When Lil brought out the food, ably assisted by Tirren, the four team-mates were sitting around a table and Lil was glad to see that they looked more relaxed than they had when they'd arrived that morning. John and Ronon sat in equally sprawled positions, lolling back with their legs stretched out, Rodney leant forward over the table as if in anticipation of his meal, and Teyla sat upright but without tension, her hands folded in her lap. Lil and Tam had been discretely keeping an eye on them and had observed John's long talk with Grella in the garden, Teyla's precipitate flight into the forest and Rodney's reluctant accompanying of the priss and her two playful prissets. Lil had been pleased to see Rodney and Teyla emerge from the forest together, walking and talking with much more ease. And Ronon, who had been like a smouldering fire about to rage out of control; he'd returned on one of Fren's riding helgen, Maddy mounted before him. They both looked like they'd been dragged through a thicket, inefficiently washed and hung out to dry; but he was smiling and a very few mumbled words were making their way to his lips.

oOo

Ronon watched Lil and Tirren set out the meal; he was hungry, even though he'd had some stew at Maddy's place. He could feel the effects of his running and his wall-building and his helg-riding in the tired drag of his limbs and the ache across his shoulders, but it didn't feel like the debilitating weakness that had been pulling him down into depression. It felt more like a natural, satisfying exhaustion that would lead to the rebuilding of his strength. The cold water of the stream had helped too, and the laughter and shrieking of Maddy and Tallen and little Ellet, and their simple pleasure in splashing each other and drying off in the hot sun.

Ronon took two of the steaks and a couple of the large root-things. Then he took some salad, because he knew his body needed it, although he found leafy things annoying and fiddly and they reminded him of times when all he had to eat were snatched handfuls of potentially poisonous plants. He really wanted to pick up a steak in one hand, a root in the other, and take alternate huge bites of each; his team probably wouldn't have minded, but Ronon had regained just a little respect for convention after his seven years' running. He picked up his knife and fork and attacked his food with some decorum.

As he ate he flicked glances up at his team-mates. Things were better, he thought, in a way he couldn't quite put his finger on. The way they were with each other was beginning to return; that easy, relaxed knowledge that came with living and fighting together that meant they didn't have to make stupid small talk to fill silences. They each knew how the others would react in any given situation, what they needed, what they'd been through. They still had a way to go, though and there were a few things that weren't right. Ronon paused in his chewing, watching.

McKay was eating steadily, his eyes eagerly moving between his plate and the serving dishes and his friends, as if afraid he wasn't going to get his share. Every so often he'd set down his knife and fork, briefly close his eyes and take a slow breath, as if reassuring himself, telling himself to slow down; the food wasn't going anywhere.

Teyla had been carefully taking a bite of steak, then one of root, then one of salad as if savouring the flavour and texture of each. Now she was trying to get small pieces of all three on her fork at once, presumably to meditate on their combined effect.

Sheppard had begun to eat, but then had reached his usual barrier, his fork hovering above his plate. He put it down and he looked like he was having a furious internal argument with himself, his black brows lowered, his mouth a grim line. Ronon debated possible approaches. He could tell the guy just to get on with it; blunt and to the point. He could nudge Teyla, and let her deal; a standard tactic amongst the three men. He could awaken John's military instincts by mounting a campaign of stealth incursions against the assembled forces on his plate; Ronon smirked slightly. Maybe distraction would be best, though; Sheppard only had a problem, Ronon thought, because he was paying too much attention to what he was doing. There was also the fact that entertainment was lacking; something that would amuse him and make Teyla roll her eyes, when really she thought it was as funny as he did. Mostly. He'd try planting a mine and wait for it to explode: hilarious. Ronon waited until Rodney had taken an unrealistically large mouthful of steak.

"You thought of names yet, McKay?"

"A boy and a girl?" mused John, taking the bait. "Luke and Leia!"

Ronon watched as Rodney's eyes bulged in outrage and his chewing sped up to try to reduce his mouthful so that he could fit some words around it without spitting out too much.

"That is just typical!" he said, his steak tucked in one side of his mouth, chewing still in progress. "You do not get to name Boudicca's kittens! Especially not with your typical pop culture sci-fi references!"

"C'mon, McKay! You like Star Wars too!" John drawled.

"I may have liked it, but that was before I had to live it!"

"They are not kittens," put in Teyla, innocently. "Lil referred to them as prissets."

 _Nice one, Teyla,_ thought Ronon, appreciating her effort at fanning the flames.

"Kittens, prissets, whatever. He's not naming them!" Rodney stabbed his fork in John's direction.

"Careful, Rodney, you'll put someone's eye out with that thing," said John, with maddening calm. Ronon noticed him absently take another mouthful.

"What names would you give them, Rodney?" Teyla enquired, calmly.

"Well," said Rodney, with his usual defensive air, as if patting ruffled plumage back into place, "I thought maybe Marie and Pierre, after the Curies." John snorted, scornfully. "Or possibly Higgs and Boson for the particle of that name."

Ronon would have been baffled on both counts, if he'd cared, but, as he was just in this for kicks, he thought a puzzled "Huh?" might stoke the fires higher. It did.

"Higgs and Boson?" John jeered. "Jeez, McKay, give the kids a break! Nobody round here knows what the hell that means!"

"I do! And why are the names of two fictional characters any better? Nobody from Pegasus has heard of them either!"

"Ronon and I have both seen the Star Wars movies, Rodney, whereas I do not know who Higgs and Boson are, or those other two names you mentioned."

Ronon grinned behind his tankard of ale. Teyla had really - what was that phrase? - 'gotten with the programme'.

"Luke and Leia it is, then!" said John, cheerfully.

"No. Just no!" insisted Rodney. "Anyway!" he continued smugly. "We should let Boudicca decide."

"What, with that telepathic thing?" said John, wiggling his fingers next to his head in illustration. "Good luck trying to mentally transmit the idea of a Higgs Boson! Or two Polish, French, whatever physicists!"

"Whereas she's bound to go for a made-up Princess freedom fighter and a Jedi Knight!"

John arranged his face into a puzzled, 'Isn't it obvious?' expression. "Well, yeah," he said.

Rodney took fuming refuge in his meal and Ronon noticed John carry on eating, his lips twitching at one corner. _Mission accomplished_ , he thought.

oOo

Rodney woke, his heart lurching, panic flooding his system, gulping great lungfuls of air as if he'd been drowning. He found himself sitting bolt upright in his bed, the sheet twisted round his legs, the earlier oppressive heat dissipated and a cold draught blowing through the open window, chilling his sweat-damp skin. He unwound the sheet, grabbed his t-shirt from where he'd flung it on the floor and put it back on. Then he padded over to the window and pulled it shut. It wouldn't close properly, the wood being very old and warped. He remembered the sock he'd wedged in the frame last winter, which had turned out to be one of John's; that hadn't gone down too well. Rodney gave the window a hard jerk, causing it to shut suddenly with a bang. Ronon's reaction of sudden, alert stillness was overshadowed by John's sudden leap straight from deep sleep to weapon-in-hand, battle readiness.

Rodney regarded the muzzle of John's gun and raised his trembling hands.

"Sh- Sheppard?" he squeaked. "Could you maybe... point that thing somewhere else?"

John's eyes widened and the hard scowl dropped from his face as his arms fell to his sides.

"Sorry, I..." he began, wiping his forehead with a shaking hand. "I don't know..."

"It's okay!" said Rodney. "I was just shutting the window. It's cold."

"Yeah," said John, shivering and looking around. "I, uh..."

"Here," said Rodney, handing him his shirt, which John had actually draped over the footboard of the bed but had ended up crumpled on the floor anyway.

"Thanks," John said, putting it on. He sat down on his bed, checked the safety was on and shoved the weapon back under his pillow.

Rodney sat down too and thought about trying to go back to sleep; the idea wasn't appealing.

"Nightmare?" asked John.

"Hm, yes," confirmed Rodney. He regarded the black shape of his friend, barely visible by the weak moonlight penetrating the thin curtains. "I, er... never seem to get more than a couple of hours without, um..."

"Yeah, me too," said John, rubbing his face with one hand and then ruffling his hair.

"Chance'd be good," rumbled Ronon, pointedly.

Rodney looked at John. "Snack?"

"Good plan."

They both made sure to nudge Ronon's bed as they passed, eliciting a snarl followed by what sounded like a threat.

oOo

The kitchen was dimly lit by the glow from the fire, the red light glinted off rows of glazed earthenware jars on shelves and highlighted the crinkled leaves of dried herbs hanging from the ceiling beams. John looked at Rodney and caught a guilty smirk, twin to his own. Lil wouldn't mind them searching for snacks; at least, she wouldn't as long as they didn't make a mess, but a midnight kitchen raid was nothing without at least the pretence of jeopardy, recalling the pleasurable thrill of risk when consuming illicit treats in his mother's kitchen. John took some logs from the basket and built up the fire.

"Where d'you think she keeps the good stuff?" Rodney whispered.

John shrugged. "Depends what you mean by good stuff," he said. "Larder's in there." He indicated a door in the wall nearest the bar. Rodney opened it and went in. John hovered outside, holding the door to let some light in. He could hear Rodney muttering to himself and there was a bump as he knocked something down.

"What're you doing in there, McKay?"

"I can't see! Something just fell... oh... loaf of bread."

"Bread? Sounded like a rock!"

Rodney giggled. "Yes! I think I'll leave that one. Oh!"

"What?"

"Cheese." Rodney's arm appeared out of the gloom, a plate in his hand holding a block of something wrapped in waxy paper. John took it and put it on the table.

"Ew!"

"What?"

"Those pickles. The ones Ronon likes."

John's nose wrinkled in remembrance of their toe-curling acidity.

"We don't want those!"

Rodney muttered something which sounded like "biological weapon," followed by an interested, "Oho!"

"Something good?"

Rodney emerged, grinning, holding a round wooden board before him, on which rested a large, cloth-wrapped, flattened cylinder. "Cake!" he said, with greedily gleaming eyes.

"I dunno, Rodney," said John, doubtfully. "Maybe it's for something special."

"I'm special!" said Rodney, appealingly. "Seriously, Sheppard, it's probably for us!"

John could feel a crooked grin making its way up the side of his face.

"I'll find a knife," he said.

He selected a large knife from the block. The cake was a rich, dark brown. It looked moist and smelled nutty and fruity.

"Just hurry up and cut some!" encouraged Rodney. "I'll do the cheese."

John placed the tip of the knife at the centre of the cake and pressed down. It took a surprising amount of force to get through and, thinking it was probably going to be quite filling, John made his second cut to form a narrow wedge.

"You could be a bit more generous, Sheppard!" Rodney protested. "Low blood sugar, here!"

"I'll make your bit bigger, then!"

He did so, and they soon had a thick slice of cheese and a wedge of cake each. Rodney started on his cake straight away, but John hesitated.

"'S wrong?" asked Rodney, round his cake.

"Needs beer," said John. He raised his eyebrows questioningly at Rodney, who nodded and made a thumbs up, chewing hard. He was still chewing when John returned, a brimming tankard in each hand. Rodney reached out, eagerly took one and drank several large gulps.

"Slow down, McKay! Is the cake good?"

"It's cake, Jim, but not as we know it!" he replied, smirking. John sniggered and took a large bite of his. It was only slightly sweet, moist in an oily kind of way and seemed to contain mostly seeds; it took a lot of chewing and needed washing down with plenty of ale.

"Mmm... that's good stuff!" said John, wiping his mouth and starting on the cheese.

"What, the beer or the cake?"

"Both, but mostly the beer."

They ate and drank steadily. Rodney refilled the tankards. John's jaw began to ache from chewing the cake. Rodney cut himself another piece. John refilled the tankards. They sat on the table, facing the fire. John swung his legs and watched the play of the firelight on his bare knees. He wondered why he'd come down to the kitchen in only his boxers and shirt and then realised only two of his shirt buttons were done up and they were in the wrong holes. He tried to rectify this situation, but couldn't seem to achieve the coordination required, which struck him as irresistibly funny.

"Wha'?" said Rodney, who only ever seemed to speak when his mouth was full of something, John thought.

"Mit... Mitl..." John took a deep breath and concentrated hard. "Military precizh'n," he said, gesturing at his attire. Rodney grinned, and drained his tankard. John looked down at himself, then at Rodney. He sighed gustily.

"Are we the good guys, McKay?"

"Huh? What?"

"Us. You, me, Ronon, Teyla, 'Lantis, everyone. Are we good? I mean, do we do more good than harm?"

"Yes!" Rodney said, with conviction. "Maybe... I think, on the whole... definitely maybe!"

"Cos, you know, we go out there," John waved a hand wildly and nearly lost his balance. "We go out there trying to help, trying to... I dunno, make a difference?" He rubbed his eyes and blinked hard, to try to get them to focus. "And it always comes back and bites us on the ass."

"I got shot in the ass," said Rodney, drowsily, leaning further and further sideways until he was slumped, his head on John's shoulder.

"That just proves my point," said John. He sighed again, trying to swallow the lump in his throat, which had nothing to do with the cake. "Why'd they have to do that?" he continued, his voice softly pleading. "Give their own people, their own children to the Wraith? And why's it always us that has to deal with it? All the messed-up stuff in this galaxy?"

He realised he was talking to himself and that Rodney was virtually asleep, his mouth open and his body relaxed. He'd probably fall off the table soon.

"Hey, McKay!" John shrugged his shoulder, jerking Rodney's head. His eyes opened.

"Oh! Hi, Sheppard!" he smiled, blearily. "Wha's up?"

"Time for bed, Rodney," said John.


	6. Chapter 6

Rodney thought he might be awake, but hoped he wasn't. Somebody shook his shoulder roughly and the accompanying noise was probably speech; he didn't care. Any noise, any movement, even his own whimpering groan and the clench of his eyelids as he tried to shut out all traces of light, were too much for his abused senses to deal with. The shake and the words came again and he groaned more loudly, this time against the assault of Ronon's, "C'mon, get up, McKay!"

"Leave me alone!" Rodney heard himself say, his brain not yet meshing correctly with his speech centre. The room stopped reverberating and Rodney guessed Ronon had gone, or was possibly waiting, still as a hunter, preparing to drag Rodney out of bed. He tentatively opened his eyes and waited for his dulled intellect to make sense of the shapes around him; the door, Ronon's bed, no Ronon. Rodney slowly turned his head; the ceiling, no Ronon dangling, in a surprise tactic, from the rafters. His head continued its very slow, very careful traverse; the window, Sheppard's bed, Sheppard, sitting on the edge, looking like he'd just heard the click of a landmine beneath him. He was wearing his shades, though the room was dim, and his hair reflected a general state of not knowing, or caring, which way was up. Yesterday's shirt hung off one shoulder and his face was a mottled white, his lips clamped tightly together and his breathing fast and shallow. He had the air of a man who didn't have any spare thoughts for questioning and regretting his actions of the previous night, because he was far too busy trying to keep the contents of his stomach in place.

"I think..." began Rodney, wincing as his whisper seemed to ricochet like a bullet around the inside of his head. "I think that beer was quite strong."

John made a high-pitched, breathy squeak of agreement, a sound which, Rodney knew, on a normal day, would not have passed his lips even under torture. For a few minutes, John sat and Rodney lay; no further progress was made. Then large feet stomped up the stairs and the door was flung open.

"Lil says to come down. She's got somethin' that'll help." The pause before the door slammed again was redolent of smug 'you guys are in so much trouble' enjoyment. Ronon's heavy tread bounced energetically back down the stairs.

Rodney watched as John slowly shuffled down the bed, and reached one-handed into the top of his pack to draw out a random selection of clothes, spilling other items over the floor and leaving them where they fell. Then he very slowly eased himself up to standing and disappeared out of Rodney's line of vision toward the tiny corner unit near the door on which sat a flowery china jug of water (it would be cold by now) and its matching basin. The sound of extremely cursory splashing followed and then various groans indicative of the complexity and recalcitrant nature of clothes in general. John appeared again before Rodney's bleary eyes. He had on an old uniform t-shirt that had faded from black to a sad greeny-brown.

"Your jeans are falling down," commented Rodney.

"Can't find the belt," answered John, inscrutable behind his shades.

"You have nothing on your feet."

"At least I'm up!" replied John, indignantly. They both flinched; it was definitely a day for whispering. "And they're too far away," John murmured, dispiritedly, his head drooping to regard his bare toes. "I'm going down," he said. "You comin'?"

"Uh... in a minute," Rodney said, resignedly.

oOo

There were voices coming from the tables outside and John heard Teyla's musical laugh; evidently, she and Ronon were breakfasting al fresco. John sat down heavily on one of the parlour settles and regarded the gently-glowing fire with slight resentment at its carefree, workaday homeliness.

The maid, Tirren, came in through the front door, an empty tray in her hand. She hesitated, looked like she was about to say something, but then hurried off, giggling.  
 _This is a pub_ , thought John, grumpily, at the unnecessary giggling, _hangovers should be part of the scenery_. He waited, willing his headache to recede and his stomach to just stay where it was meant to be. A series of suppressed whimpers and the sound of very slow, careful progress heralded Rodney's arrival. He eased himself down onto the opposite settle; his face was an ugly greeny-yellow and John was considering sending through the Gate for Keller when it occurred to him to raise his shades ever-so-slightly, which revealed that Rodney was merely a nasty shade of green. _Probably okay,_ then, thought John.

"Good morning, John, Rodney!" The hearty brightness was deliberate, thought John, looking up into Lil's cheery, pink-cheeked face. She thrust a tankard into his hand and one into Rodney's and John's stomach gave a lurch of rebellion. "Sip it!" she advised. "Slowly." She pulled up a chair and sat down on it deliberately, with the air of one determined to see her orders carried out. She looked, expectantly, from one man to the other. John, obediently, sipped. It had a strong taste, a little like ginger, but with a malty background and some kind of bitter, green herbiness. He waited, planning his route through the back door, across the garden and to the refuge of the outhouse, but, other than some noisy gurgling from his stomach, nothing happened. He took another sip, and then relaxed slightly, realising that he wasn't going to have to make a sharp exit; he held his tankard in both hands and balanced it on his knees.

"Sorry," he said to Lil, and was echoed by Rodney, who sounded more sorry for himself than for last night's exploits.

"Oh, you don't need to say sorry to me," said Lil, airily. "I daresay drunkenness was inevitable at some point, this being a pub and you being on holiday. But, why you had to go for Tam's special brew, I don't know - strong stuff, that! Anyway," she continued, "Like I say, no apology required, although," (her smirk looked like it wanted to be a grin but was too polite), "You might want to explain to Franca why you ate half her cake!"

"What? Who? What now?" spluttered Rodney, his tankard halting halfway to his mouth. John merely sat, passive, and closed his eyes, knowing they couldn't be seen behind his shades.

"Franca's pregnant; due any day, now," said Lil, with simple pride. "When a helg-sow gives birth we make her a special cake to help her regain her strength and get milk production off to a good start."

Rodney looked stricken, his eyes darting to his chest, as if expecting to see wet patches blooming on his t-shirt (today decorated with a multitude of yellow hazard warning triangles, surmounting the caption, 'All of the above').

Lil laughed. "You don't need to worry about that, Rodney! I'm sure it only works with helg-sows!"

Rodney sagged with visible relief.

"It's not meant for people, though. I'd have thought you'd have noticed..." She trailed away, wonderingly. "I'm sure you'll be fine! How much did you each have?"

John raised his hand, his open fingers indicating the size of his narrow wedge. Rodney merely looked at Lil with mute appeal as she worked out who had consumed the lion's, or rather the helg-sow's share.

"Oh... well," she said, her smile rather more forced. "I'm sure you'll be fine!" she repeated. "Just... er..." Lil lowered her voice, bent close to Rodney and said, with soothing kindness, "Just don't stray too far from the outhouse today, dear." She stood up and headed back to the kitchen, with a brisk, "Drink up!"

Rodney, his eyes very large and very blue, looked at John, with not quite so mute appeal, several squeaks escaping his lips, which may or may not have been aborted protests.

John, who was far too good a friend to make fun of Rodney right now (he'd wait a good couple of hours), shrugged his shoulders in an attempt to convey some kind of manly sympathy, and took another sip of his drink.

oOo

Teyla watched as Tam hitched the young helg to the cart, struggling to get the eager animal to stand while he fastened the harness. Tayko was on loan from a neighbour, because Franca would soon be occupied with her litter of helgets, which reminded Teyla of John and Rodney's night-time exploits and she had to turn away again so that John wouldn't see her eye-rolling grin. Having schooled her expression into relaxed patience, she turned back. Tam was ready, and he climbed up behind Tayko, jerking his head toward the bed of the cart; they climbed in, and with a lurch, set off up the track toward the Gate.

There was work to be done and Lil had taken Teyla aside and suggested that it might conceivably keep Ronon and John out of trouble. As Teyla was well aware, it took a lot of wood to maintain a fire for cooking food and heating a building, not to mention heating water for laundry; and baths, she thought, speculatively, not having seen one in evidence at the Happy Helg. She would ask Lil, although she would probably be directed to the nearest stream and, after a day's wood-cutting, Teyla guessed the stream would be a pleasant enough prospect.

It was already warm, though today a pleasantly cool breeze ruffled the treetops, giving a hint of freshness. Teyla looked at the woodland scrolling slowly past her gaze, each moment providing a different view into the green dimness between the upright trunks and criss-crossed lattice of low branches. The cart jolted and swayed over the rutted track. Ronon relaxed easily into the motion, but John, who had begun to look slightly more reconciled to the brightness and activity of the day, began to look pale again and held his lower lip gripped between his teeth.

Fortunately, they did not have far to go. Tam turned the cart off the Gate track and onto a narrow way, which led between areas of managed woodland, all the trees in each section being at the same stage of growth.

Tam pulled up in a clearing and climbed down from his seat, carrying a sturdy leather bag, which clanked as he put it down on the ground. He unhitched Tayko and let him into a small, fenced section of woodland and then began laying out the tools they would use. Ronon had jumped out of the cart before it had quite come to a halt and was half looking at the tools, half checking the ground for tracks. Teyla stepped lightly down and looked back at John.

"I am sure some activity will help," she said.

"Yeah, I know." He slid out of the cart, steadied himself against its side and then made his way over to Tam. Teyla followed, interested in the work they were to do.

"I have always been used to harvesting wood in the autumn and winter, when the trees sleep," she said.

"Aye, I've heard it's like that in some places," acknowledged Tam. He looked up from his crouch. "Here, see, the growing season's that long that it's split in two, with a lot of trees having a rest from growth half way through, else they'd use up all the water and goodness in the soil around them. These here," he nodded toward trees they were to harvest, "They'll be dormant for a good few weeks, and then probably put out new growth during the next wet spell."

Teyla was fascinated, but Ronon, obviously bored, had crouched down next to Tam and picked up a short, curved blade with a rounded, sturdy handle.

"Nice," he said

Tam nodded agreement. "All new-sharpened," he said. "We mostly use these hooked blades, then there's the saws for bigger stuff and the axe and the hatchet for splitting. We won't be splitting the stuff we cut today; we'll leave that to season. But there's a good pile over there ready for the fire, so we'll do some of that."

"What about this one?" asked Ronon eagerly, picking up the largest axe.

"That's for felling; we might use it, we'll see." Ronon looked determined not just to see, but do. "Anyway, plenty to be done, take your choice," said Tam, easily.

oOo

Teyla found the hooked knife an efficient tool for harvesting the whip-thin new growth that was used for weaving baskets. The wood was strong and flexible and, although it was a long time since she had used her skill, she hoped to be able to make something useful that would last; something that might be a symbol of the continuity of her culture amid the wanton destruction and waste of life that she had witnessed.

The breeze had dropped and it became oppressive beneath the trees, as if their leaves were blanketing in the heat; each hot breath felt as if it sapped her strength and she was glad she had chosen the least energetic of the jobs to be done. Teyla could hear the rhythmic back and forth of Ronon's saw and the quick chop and split of John's hatchet. Trickles of sweat ran down the side of her face and she swiped them away with the back of her hand. Her hair felt damp and itchy, so she untied her ponytail, rubbed her fingers vigorously through the limp strands to cool her scalp and then retied it. Through the trees she could see Tam and Ronon working together; they had both taken off their shirts and Tam had obviously satisfied himself as to Ronon's competency with the axe. Ronon swung it in an efficient arc and it bit into the side of the tree, enlarging the cut they had already made. He stood back, looking dissatisfied and handed the axe to Tam, who took a powerful swing, the muscles on his arms and shoulders standing out.

Teyla's eyes narrowed at Ronon's expression; she knew he was impatient to have his full physical strength returned, but after weeks of starvation and slow recovery, that would take time. She hoped Tam would have the sense to call a halt if Ronon tried to push his body beyond its limits. She selected a couple of very thin switches to bind her bundle together and carried it over to the cart.


	7. Chapter 7

Lil had been right; too miserably, and actually rather painfully right, Rodney thought, dragging himself with shuffling steps across the kitchen garden once more, having endured yet another visit to the oven-like and increasingly pungent outhouse. He bitterly wished Franca joy of the remaining half of her cake and vowed never to eat another seed ever again. His eyes squinted against the white-hard glare of the midday sun and then suddenly the brightness mixed with the shine of emerald leaves. He felt dizzy and would have fallen if something hadn't gripped him by his arm and taken charge, so that he found himself sitting in a chair by the kitchen table, his elbows resting on his knees, his head drooping and a hand gently but firmly placed on the back of his neck.

"Just sit like that for a minute." Lil's voice, from above him. Rodney complied. "Well, you could have done without that, couldn't you?" she said. He made a small, but emphatic noise of agreement. The hand withdrew and he sat up, tentatively. An earthenware mug sat on the table next to him. "Drink," she ordered. _A remedy for every occasion,_ thought Rodney, and took a sip; it was pleasantly cool but very bitter.

"'S revolting," he whispered.

"All the best herbs are!" Lil agreed. Rodney heard the unmistakable meeting of biscuit and crockery and a plate appeared. "Eat," said Lil.

"Is that a good idea?"

"Yes," she replied. "And you're staying there 'til you look less like a rag that's been boiled once too often."

"Oh," he said, nibbling the biscuit and wondering about Lil's imagery. He sipped and nibbled alternately, the gentle, sweet aniseed taste of the biscuit off-setting the really quite nasty tea. Rodney felt himself begin to revive. Lil moved about the kitchen, filling a tray with bread and cheese, meat and fruit. She called through to the bar and Tirren took the tray out, giving Rodney a sympathetic smile. Lil went into the larder and came out carrying a small sack.

"White flour!" she said, with a sense of occasion. "Always in short supply, but there's enough for some rolls for later, and I'll make you a proper cake!"

"No seeds," he said, warningly.

Rodney ate another biscuit and watched Lil mixing and kneading, chopping and shaping, co-ordinating several recipes at once with smoothness and efficiency. Her movements began to trigger patterns and pathways in his mind and he chased several at once to see where they would lead. His fingers twitched for a laptop and his hand, reaching out, found an empty cheese wrapper, waxy on one side but papery on the other. His twitching fingers snapped rapidly.

"Pen, pencil... stylus!" he barked.

A piece of greyish chalk appeared in front of him accompanied by an indulgently amused snort. Rodney began to write.

oOo

John was working steadily, facing away from Teyla, upending the seasoned logs on an old tree stump and splitting them into manageable chunks, which he hurled into the bed of the cart. His hair drooped with moisture and his t-shirt was a damp, abandoned heap on the ground, so that she could see the effect of his recent imprisonment in the sharp lines of his shoulders and his visible ribs and vertebrae. As she watched, John's pace slowed, his hatchet strikes became less effective and well-timed and she saw fine tremors develop in his arms. Teyla was about to speak, but then he stopped, holding the hatchet with its head resting upside down on the stump, and wiped his other arm across his forehead. Teyla put down her bundle, leaning it up against the side of the cart.

"You should rest, John," she said.

"Yeah," he answered, ruefully. "Don't seem to have that much energy, what with the heat and the hangover and...you know."

"We are all still recovering. That is why we are here."

"Time for a break!" Tam approached, Ronon trailing behind, looking mutinous.

"Didn't he let you use the big axe, Chewie?"

"We used the axe," said Tam. "Not sure we'll be doing much more today, though. It's too hot for this kind of work. Time for lunch!" He walked round to the front of the cart and began unloading provisions from beneath the seat.

"You must have patience, Ronon," said Teyla gently. "Work with your body as it is, not how you might wish it to be."

He grunted discontentedly and she exchanged an exasperated look with John.

oOo

Rodney was still writing, his scribbling fast and furious, his lips moving as he wrote, his words sometimes articulated into mutterings that were unintelligible to Lil. She remembered John saying that Rodney was the scientist on the team, back when they had first met, but she had never seen him in action, his concentration so intense that it appeared he had entered his own private world of formulae and physics. She had noticed he had nearly filled the cheese wrapping and had silently placed a stack of clean sheets next to him, which he had begun to fill without even noticing, much less thanking her. Lil didn't mind; presumably what he was writing was important and she would do what she could to help. When the chalk had run down to a stub, she fetched the ink pen from behind the bar, trimmed it so that it would write smoothly, and set it down next to Rodney. There was a brief pause in his scribbling when the chalk ran right down and crumbled in his fingers and he looked round, as if he'd forgotten where he was. He gazed at Lil blankly for a second, then frowned thoughtfully as if placing a mental note in the margin of his mind; she indicated the quill pen, and he continued, quickly getting into the rhythm of writing and dipping into the ink alternately.

Lil carried on with her work, occasionally placing a drink or a snack within Rodney's reach. The drinks were gulped, the food consumed with automaton-like efficiency, and the writing continued.

oOo

Ronon prowled about the clearing, his eyes catching here and there on the signs of movement and life which told him a story that only he, and possibly Teyla, could see: the animals that had passed during the previous night; wild, or escaped helg that had playfully kicked up the dried leafmold and chased each other through the trees; a priss, maybe more than one, that had moved like a ghost around the edge of the clearing, leaving only a few stray hairs caught on a spindly twig, barely to be seen, but clear as a flag for those that knew to look. There were also signs of human activity; their own, obviously, but also others' from the day before. They had been accompanied by children, who had climbed trees and played games with sticks.

"Sit down, big guy," said John, from his position on an upturned log. "It's too hot for tracking imaginary Wraith, or whatever it is you're doing."

Ronon ignored him. He didn't want to sit down. He'd had a drink, something to eat, and now he felt restless and frustrated, the heat and the fatigued heaviness in his body dragging him down to the ground, but his mind feeling the need for action; to run, to fight, to do something that would pacify his confused, irritated thoughts. On the ground before him lay a stick, about the thickness of his thumb, a bit shorter than an arm's length; he picked it up and gripped it firmly and tried a few moves with it. Not very well balanced, but it would do. He found another, and began going through a sequence of positions that Teyla had taught him.

"What's that, then?" he heard Tam ask. Teyla began to explain, but Ronon concentrated on the movements of his body, the sticks crossing in front of him, turning and then sweeping, together and then apart. He faltered, misstepped, tried again, feeling the smooth flow one moment, jarring awkwardness the next, made worse by the fact that this should be easy, simple enough to do in his sleep. It wasn't working. Maybe he'd feel better with an opponent. He kicked around on the ground again, found two more sticks. He offered them to Teyla.

"I do not wish to spar, Ronon. Perhaps later, when it is cool."

He offered them to John, who was eating an apple-like fruit. John looked at him, chewed, swallowed.

"You're not gonna give up on this, are you?"

Ronon continued to hold out the sticks. John threw his core away into the trees. He sighed and got to his feet, stretching the stiffness out of his arms, and took the sticks.

"Just a coupla minutes," he said, grudgingly. "A demonstration. To show Tam."

They faced off, each with their sticks held in a defensive position. John flourished his, twirling them around. He always did that and should have learned by now not to bother; it never distracted Ronon. John tried a couple of tentative strikes which Ronon blocked easily, then there was a quick flurry of strikes and counter-strikes between them at close quarters and they side-stepped back and forth as their weight shifted in the quick-fire rhythm of attack and defence. They moved apart, both breathing heavily.

"I think Tam gets the idea," John panted.

Ronon simply raised his rods once more and attacked, and John met his first blow, ducked under the next, and came diagonally up, forcing Ronon round and smacking him hard on the back of one thigh. Ronon went with the movement and spun round to meet both of John's sticks with a sharp double crack and bring his other arm in quickly to strike John's ribs.

Then Ronon felt something that had been tickling at the edge of his awareness break free, something that had been suppressed but growing inside him, and suddenly he was back there, with the Resistance.

They had ambushed a convoy as they passed through the derelict outer suburbs of the city. They'd released the people and were taking them to safety, and the team had been shocked to see the reality of how this society worked, to see the people chosen: the old and frail, the very sick, all those not classified as 'pure', some of them only children. But the government forces had overwhelmed them and Ronon had been disarmed; they'd thought him stunned, but he'd waited, and when they came too close he'd snatched up an old piece of metal railing and struck them over and over, these cowards who gave up the innocent to save their own skins. He'd hit out as hard as he could again and again until stunner blasts had finally subdued him.

Someone was crying out, harsh and urgent and then Ronon was gripped hard from behind, strong arms encircling him, pulling him away, unbalancing him so that he fell. And he was back in the forest and Tam was holding him down and Teyla crouched on the ground before him in the dappled summer shade, crouched over a crumpled shape that didn't move.


	8. Chapter 8

John had not wanted to fight. He was tired and hot and all he wanted to do was jump in the nearest lake and then find somewhere in the shade to sit, with a pitcher of beer for company. He had been wondering if Tam would let him draw some off from one of the barrels in the cold, dark cellar, because, though he had grown to appreciate the subtle (or not-so-subtle) flavours of real ale when served at room temperature, in this weather he craved something chilled enough to create a sheen of condensation on his glass, or, in this case, tankard.

But Ronon was restless and twitchy and John recognised that he needed an outlet. Perhaps they could just move through one of their regular drills and not actually fight? It quickly became apparent, however, that the set sequence of a drill was not what Ronon had in mind. His face was set, his whole demeanour determined and John, seeing an intimidating glitter in his eyes, had to remind himself that Ronon was his friend and teammate and would not hurt him. Much. His superior height and smoothly muscled torso weren't helping John's self-confidence either; Ronon might consider himself to be below full strength, but John knew he could inflict damage enough, if he chose. John had twirled his sticks and suppressed a nervous laugh that wanted to escape. He felt the sweat drying on his chest and shivered slightly despite the heat, wishing he'd put his t-shirt back on.

He'd been pleased to find himself holding his own, getting into the rhythm, spotting attacks in time to block and seeing openings to retaliate. He'd scored a hit and Ronon had struck back and that was enough; time to call a halt. But then John had seen Ronon's expression change. His eyes had taken on a faraway blankness as if he were reliving past horrors, and his body had responded to his memories with violence. Ronon had attacked him, savagely, desperately, with the same total life-or-death commitment with which he would face an enemy, and a furious rage that would be sated only with blood. John tried to meet the attack, blocking and evading and retreating, and he could hear Teyla calling out and see a movement out of the corner of his eye that was Tam. His sticks splintered, so he blocked with his forearms and hands and tried to wrest Ronon's sticks from his murderous grip. Blows slipped past his weakened defense and he stepped back further. His foot came down awkwardly on the edge of a log and he lost his balance, landed on his back and had a split-second view of a stick arcing toward his head.

The world jolted and spun and became blurred with moving patches of dark and light. He closed his eyes to shut it out and wished he could shut out the sounds too; loud but muffled and annoyingly persistent.

Then his hearing regained some clarity and he could hear Teyla calling his name and he felt hands rolling him onto his side. Which, now he came to think of it was uncomfortable and ridiculous and if he opened his eyes would be embarrassing too. He did and it was, because he was lying on the ground with one cheek smushed into the dried debris of the forest floor and Teyla knelt next to him, one hand on his arm and the other holding a cloth to his head so that it partly obscured one eye.

He tried to sit up and gathered his wits enough to make the usual noises about being 'fine'.

"You are not fine, John and you will lie still for now!" Teyla's voice had that hint of steel which you simply didn't ignore. He lay still and took stock; his head hurt and his arms and hands, particularly his right arm.

"Wha' happened?"

"You do not remember?"

John remembered the stick sweeping toward his head, beneath Ronon's enraged face.

"Oh. Yeah." He closed his eyes and then opened them again.

"Ronon okay?"

"Yes, he is. He is with Tam."

"Flashback, I think."

"I think so too."

"Can I sit up, now?"

Teyla took the cloth away from his head.

"This is still bleeding, but it has slowed."

John pushed himself up to sitting, with Teyla's help, wincing as he put his weight on his arm. He sat awkwardly, eyes closed against the dizziness, Teyla still holding the cloth against his head, his arms limply resting on his knees.

"So, does that look broken to you?" he said, trying to speak lightly, but with images of casts and physio and weeks of tedious recovery flashing through his mind.

"Which? Your arms are both bruised."

"The right."

"I cannot tell. Can you move it?"

John experimentally wiggled his fingers, then raised his arm slightly and rotated his wrist. It hurt, but he remembered breaks that hadn't hurt as much as this and so couldn't draw any sensible conclusion. "Maybe it's just bruised," he said, hopefully.

"We will see," said Teyla.

John mumbled, not wanting to say the words and knowing that Teyla would understand anyway.

"I know you do not want to go to the Atlantis infirmary, John, but perhaps you will have to."

John was about to make another indeterminate mumble, just to see if Teyla knew what he was likely to say before he did (his money was on yes, she did) when a pair of brown boots shuffled reluctantly into view.

"Sheppard," came Ronon's voice. "I... er..."

John would have waved a casual dismissal, but was afraid of how much it would hurt. Instead, he squinted up at Ronon. "Don't sweat it, Chewie. Wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, it was."

"No. It wasn't! Things like that happen. Just... no more fighting for now, yeah? No sparring. Nothing."

"'kay."

oOo

Rodney realised he'd fallen asleep over his work, which wasn't surprising, given the night's activities, not to mention the morning's (and, unless they were supremely tactless, nobody would mention it, and he could just not-so-merrily gloss over the whole episode). Rodney regularly fell asleep over his work, but his work was normally carried out on a laptop, which, yes, did leave marks on his face, and, yes, foolish people like Zelenka did find them hugely amusing, no doubt. However, Rodney didn't usually work in quill pen and ink, which stayed wet for a remarkably long time when applied to the reverse side of waxed paper. Rodney studied his inky-black fingers and the side of his hand where it had rested on the surface as he wrote. He studied the cheek-shaped area of the paper that looked particularly well blotted and drew the unfortunate conclusion. If, he pondered resentfully, in the highly unlikely event that Ronon or Teyla or even John had fallen asleep on a close-written sheet of complex formulae and various types of mathematical and astrophysical reasoning (at its highest level, he thought, with pride and complaisance); if that hugely implausible circumstance were to occur, the ink thus transferred to their faces would take on the appearance of arcane tribal tattoos, warlike and mysterious and unmistakably cool. Rodney was fully and resignedly aware, however, that in his case, he would merely look like he'd been held down and forcibly graffitied by the school bully; it wasn't as if he could even pretend that that hadn't actually happened, thanks to his sister.

He realised he'd been woken by the sound of bustle and commotion coming from the bar, and hoped it would provide sufficient distraction from his transfer-printed face. It did. Sheppard came through the bar door, a bloody cloth held to his forehead, Lil trying to usher him along without actually touching him, which was always a bad sign. He spotted Rodney and squinted at him.

"What happened to your face, McKay?" He sat down on one of the fireside chairs and took the cloth away from his head.

"Whoa-ho! What happened to yours?" exclaimed Rodney, not exactly gleefully, but aware that any eyes directed at Sheppard would not be directed at him. "And your arms!" he said, looking at the bruising revealed by John's short sleeves. John looked uncomfortable. Lil gathered her medical kit, tight-lipped.

"What? Tell me what happened!" Rodney demanded.

"Ronon," said John, bluntly.

"But... it was an accident, right?"

"We were sparring. He had a flashback." John shrugged and winced.

"Oh," said Rodney. "That's... that's pretty bad. That's like, PTSD bad."

"He'll be fine. He's been through worse."

"Yes, he has, and has anyone ever really tackled that? Seven years running? The things he must have seen! But he hardly ever talks about it. He must have some real issues."

"We've all got issues, McKay."

"But we can't just ignore this..."

"And we won't!" John interrupted sharply.

"Right, let's have a look then," said Lil, ignoring the tension between the two men. She began gently cleaning the blood away from John's cut, peering at his head intently to assess the damage. Rodney turned away to gather all his papers up and arrange them in order.

"It needs a couple of stitches," Lil said.

"Go ahead," said John. "What's all that, McKay?"

"Oh, it's just a little idea that's been running around inside the intricate maze that is my intellect," said Rodney, smugly.

"Looks a bit more than a 'little idea'. Ow!"

"Keep still! I'm trying to do it neatly."

"Hmm, yes, well, it is really, and it's funny..." Rodney tailed off, his thoughts continuing internally as he searched for a logical explanation.

"I'm glad something's funny." John winced again.

"I've finished now," said Lil. "Let's get some of these magic ice packs on those bruises."

"What's funny, Rodney?" John said, irritably.

"Oh, just that it's been percolating through my mind for a while: _The utilisation of quantum entanglement in Ancient technology_. If only I could publish!" He sighed, wistfully. "But it didn't quite make sense, somehow. And then, suddenly, it did!" He snapped his fingers. "Maybe it was watching all the culinary wizardry in progress," he continued, thinking about the freshly-baked cake awaiting his attention; a cake that was definitely and absolutely fit for human consumption. "Although," said Rodney shiftily, "it's true that clearing all cached data allows room for more important things."

"Clearing...? Oh! So that's what you were doing in the outhouse! I thought you had a bad case of the..."

"Yes, thank you, Sheppard," Rodney interrupted. "No need to descend to your usual level of crudity. I'm not Ronon! Um... where is he, by the way?"

"We got back here, but then he ran off, into the forest," John said. Lil tutted.

"Did Teyla go after him?"

"You said it yourself, Rodney! Seven years running; d'you really think anyone'd catch up to him if he didn't want to be caught?"

"I suppose not," said Rodney, twitching the sheets of paper in his hands. "Are we due a check-in, with Sam?"

John closed his eyes. "Yes."

"Oh. Good luck with that, then."

"Go wash your face, Rodney!"

oOo

John sat on the bed, ice packs balanced on both arms, remembering a similar communication he'd had with Elizabeth; except then, it had been winter and he'd taken the call hidden beneath the blankets. And it had just been physical hurts they'd had to deal with then, even though for a while he'd thought it a strong possibility that his injuries might lead to some kind of horrific transformation; and Carson had swiftly put his mind at rest on that score. John had had to tell Sam everything, and his attempt to put a positive spin on the situation had failed miserably. Rodney put his head round the door, tentatively.

"What did she say?"

"She's sending a Jumper."

"What? Now? No! I need to see Boudicca, we haven't named the kittens or explored the mountains or anything!"

"Can it, McKay! She just wants me to go back 'n' get checked over. And talk about Ronon."

"Oh. Well. I suppose that's sensible."

"Yeah, sensible," echoed John, sourly. _From R & R to FUBAR,_ he thought, _and we've only been here a day..._


	9. Chapter 9

Colonel Samantha Carter registered the incoming wormhole with half her mind, the rest being taken up with her frustrating attempt to collate mission reports into something that would be acceptable to the IOA. It was like learning a new programming language, except in this case you input the data and instead of a logical and predictable result, you never really knew what you'd get back. Chuck put his head round the door.

"Colonel Sheppard's back, Ma'am."

"Thanks, Chuck," she smiled, and returned her attention to her work. She'd give it a while, because she knew Dr Keller was waiting in the Jumper Bay - with a gurney; and she did not want to be there for that little spat, thank you very much. John would grumble, Keller would quote 'standard procedure', and so on, and then eventually John would give in with very bad grace and continue his campaign of offended dignity or manly stoicism or whatever it was until he'd driven the infirmary staff crazy. He'd get away with it, though, because once they said he could go, either he'd do the sorrowful and apologetic look, and the female staff (and some of the male) would crumble, or he'd go with the rogueish charm, in which case... well, ditto, actually. Sam considered herself to be immune to both approaches, having witnessed, on countless occasions, Daniel utilising the former and Colonel (now General) O'Neill the latter, and occasionally both of them acting as a tag team of almost mesmeric persuasion.

She'd wait until John came looking for her, or if he didn't, she'd know Jennifer was keeping him, and that didn't bear thinking about. There was no reconciling John Sheppard to an infirmary stay, unless serious drugs were involved, and even then... Sam continued to work, choosing her words carefully and being sure to emphasize any economic gains or savings, which always went down well. She pondered the wording of her next paragraph. They'd been given certain items, by a fertility-worshipping society, and she wanted them to sound like a significant asset to the expedition. Sam realised she'd already over-used the word 'cultural' and was about to type 'phallic', while wondering if there was a female equivalent and mumbling "Where are you when I need you, Daniel?" when there was a knock on the door frame. She looked up.

"John!"

"Sam." He was using neither the sorrowful face nor the rogueish charm; he looked battered, still too thin and slightly unsure of himself. Both his forearms were bandaged from just below the elbow up to his wrists and he had a dressing above his left eyebrow.

"Ouch!" said Sam, with a sympathetic wince. "What's Keller's verdict?"

He smirked slightly and gave a careful wave. "Look, no breaks!"

"You were lucky. If there'd been no-one there to stop him..."

"There was," he said, forbiddingly, sitting down in one of the armchairs. "And he would have stopped anyway."

Sam gave him a sceptical look.

"Look, John," she began carefully, "I have to decide what's best here, for Ronon and for everyone."

"What d'you mean?" he demanded, defensively. "Ronon's on my team! He's one of us!"

"Yes, he is, and that means not only that he has to obey the same rules as the rest of us, but also that he's entitled to the same help!"

"Can you see him agreeing to talk to a psychologist? Can you see it helping if he did?"

Sam blew out an exasperated breath, making the escaped strands of hair fly up in front of her face.

"What do you suggest?"

John shrugged. "Just let him be."

She rolled her eyes and was about to attack him for foolish 'taciturn male' solidarity, or something along those lines, when he continued.

"I think he'll get what he needs where he is!" He was doing the persuasively sorrowful eyes now. Sam ignored them. "There's work he can do, friends he likes, not just his team, and there are people who're good at talking, like, no-pressure talking."

"You talked to someone?" Sam tried not to sound disbelieving.

"As a matter of fact, I did!"

"Did it help?"

He considered, while nibbling on his lower lip and frowning. Sam didn't think that was a studied look on John's part; he seemed to do it without being aware, but it did give him the air of a schoolboy who'd been asked a really tough math question.

"Yeah... I think so."

Sam sat back in her chair and regarded him, resisting the urge to steeple her fingers, and wondering which of her past COs had made that gesture while deciding the fate of subordinates; was it General Hammond?

"Okay, but I want regular reports!"

He smiled.

"Detailed, truthful reports!"

He looked gently insulted, as if it would never occur to him to obfuscate in order to make his sometimes hair-raising plans sound sane and sensible.

"Off you go, John! Try to enjoy your vacation!"

He got up with alacrity.

"No more injuries!" she called. Then, "Wait!"

He turned back, looking anxious, as if she might have changed her mind.

"Has Jennifer given you everything you need?"

"Painkillers, check," he replied. "Ice packs, check. In fact," he said guiltily, "I think you'll need to okay a pretty large requisition form for some more of those things. They don't have electricity or refrigeration, so..."

"You have to have the expensive field-kit ones," she finished for him, ruefully. "Go on, then." He went, with a stiff little salute of one bandaged arm.

Sam returned to her work. "One more thing to get past the IOA," she mumbled. "Maybe a mini naquadah generator... and a portable freezer..." she mused. The logistical challenges of life in a far distant galaxy were many, varied and, actually, strangely comforting when they didn't involve mortal peril.

oOo

Teyla relaxed in steamy luxury. When they had returned from their wood-cutting expedition with John injured and Ronon sullen and uncooperative, Teyla had almost run off into the forest herself. Lil had hustled John into the kitchen and Tam, seeing Teyla's overheated and exasperated condition, had offered her a tankard of ale. She had declined, but, with little hope of a positive answer, had raised the issue of a bath. Tam had paused, and then said he thought Lil had had plans to heat some water for laundry and that if Teyla didn't mind scooping the water out of the copper and bathing in the wooden washtub, she was more than welcome.

The laundry was in one of the small outbuildings surrounding the yard. There was a stone-built construction in one corner, with a giant copper vat set into the surface and an oven-like furnace beneath. Firewood was stacked neatly against one wall and a rush basket of laundry sat on the floor next to a large, round, iron-bound wooden tub. A bucket stood on the ledge next to the copper and Teyla spent quite some time dipping the bucket in and tipping it into the tub. Then she had to go to the well and draw more water to refill the copper and to add to the tub, which was far too hot, so that by the time she peeled her clothes away from her itchy, sticky skin, she was very eager to immerse herself in the warm water.

The little room had filled with steam and Teyla breathed it in, enjoying the sense of ease it brought to her lungs after a day in the dry, dusty summer air. She could not stretch out in the tub and had to sit with her knees up, but she put a towel behind her neck to lean back on and looked up through the swirling plumes of steam to the darkness of the rafters. She had seen the Jumper come for John while she was at the well and hoped he would be back soon. She hoped Ronon would come back soon too, and wondered if Lil had deliberately started to roast a helg joint so that the tempting scent would waft out into the forest and lure him home.

Teyla closed her eyes and immediately the savage scene in the woodland clearing sprang to life before her. Ronon had hit out, in his blind rage, without a shred of restraint, striking at John again and again. To see one of her dearest friends hurting the other had been extremely unpleasant, to say the least, even if she knew well that Ronon was unaware of the identity of his victim. She was glad Tam had been there. Teyla knew, even with her skills, she would have been hard-pressed to have stopped Ronon in the grip of such a flashback; brute strength had been the only way.

Walking back, behind the wood-filled cart, watching Tam's broad shoulders next to John's, narrower and tense with pain, she had pressed a few unwilling words out of Ronon, to the effect that he had thought himself once more defending the poor innocents ear-marked for the Wraith; in which case, Teyla could fully understand his savagery. 

She opened her eyes again to the simple pleasure of the homely wooden tub and moved her hands gently up and down, to create rippling wavelets which lapped at the wooden sides with a soothing watery slap. She thought about Lil and Tam and all the helg-farming families; their lives and their lands and their closeness. _This,_ she thought, _is a healing place. This is a place where we can work through our emotions, each in our own way and at our own pace. And then all will be as it should once more. ___

 _ _oOo__

 _ _Ronon slipped silently out of the forest on the yard side of the Happy Helg. He had run; not hard or fast or with any particular emotion, except disappointment and depressing resignation. His feet had pounded the earth steadily, relentlessly, at a pace barely faster than a walk, ekeing out his energy, his body sinking into anodyne activity to subdue his mind into similar dull endurance. He emerged from the forest in the still-warm darkness of the summer's night, with no new revelations, no different approach to his life and experiences, but with a little more acceptance. Sometimes, he'd realised, there were no solutions; you hit one of life's rocky patches and you just had to live through it as best you could and wait until you'd come out the other side.__

__He moved around to the yard gate and, hearing voices, paused behind the high fence, where he couldn't be seen. The voices diminished; he heard the kitchen door close. Ronon unlatched the gate and went through, closing it softly behind him. The dim glow of lantern-light came from the barn. Ronon crossed the yard, a tall, slouching shadow, and went in; there was nobody there, but there was the sound of almost continuous rustling activity coming from Franca's box. He looked over the half-door and then simply stood, fascinated. Franca lay on her side, exuding maternal satisfaction, as ten (or was it twelve?) wriggling helgets enjoyed their first meal, tiny pointed ears twitching, fluffy little tassel-like tails waving in the air and their eyes closed in the bliss of warmth and safety. Franca's eye rolled up toward Ronon and she gave a long, prideful grunt._ _

__"Cool," agreed Ronon.__

 _ _oOo__

 _ _Lil had put some extra treats in the scraps bucket, along with the remaining half of Franca's cake and an extra scoop or so of the oily seeds that had so disagreed with Rodney's digestion. _Twelve healthy helgets_ , she thought, as she carried the bucket out to the barn; _a fine addition to any household_. The barn was peaceful and Lil guessed the little ones were sleeping by now. They were, and so was Franca, and neither mother nor babies seemed to be disturbed by an intrusion into their territory: Ronon, sitting in the straw, leaning against the wall, just watching._ _

__Lil was relieved. She'd known he would show up eventually, but the rest of his team were worried, John in particular, who had been concerned on his return from Atlantis to find his teammate still missing. Ronon glanced up at Lil briefly, his eyes guarded, then continued to watch the new family. She leant heavily on the stable door and looked down at Ronon; this confused young man, who was still a boy to her in so many ways, his long, lanky frame folded awkwardly, as if expressing his state of mind. He was a curious mixture; taciturn and defensive, yet normally eager for a challenge and with a mischievous sense of humour, which he often hid, and, she believed, he also hid more layers and years of pain and loss than she could fathom._ _

__Lil recalled her own pain, her own loss, of which she and Tam rarely spoke. The Wraith had not needed to touch her, nor the other evils of the galaxy that were made by sentient hand. She thought of Tirren, and how glad they were to have taken her in as a child; sad for her terrible loss, but grateful to have someone to care for, to nurture, when time after time, year after year, their own children had faltered and failed and ended in blood and sorrow before even Lil had felt their movements quicken inside her. She recalled the grief of those days, but also their confusion, as she went about her daily life. She cooked, she washed, she fed the helgen, she served in the bar. She spoke and she smiled and she laughed, and she wasn't acting because she loved her work and her people; but then she would turn aside to wonder desperately and futilely at the contrast, sharp as glass, between her sorrow and the everyday round of the mundane. Life was sweet as honey and foully bitter as gall and to reconcile the two, to live with the opposite extremes in their quick alternation as daily life progressed was a perpetual struggle._ _

__Lil wondered what she should say. She could share her own experiences, but to hear about another's suffering when in the midst of one's own sometimes sent, not a message of solidarity, but in some way a negation; a diminishing, suppressing directive, as if to say, 'You think you're badly off? Look at me!" And she was here to support, not to compete. She opened the door and slipped inside, softly, and sat down in the straw, next to Ronon. They watched Franca, her great body rising and falling in sleep, and her pile of sated, relaxed helgets, with their quick little breaths and twitches. Lil put her hand carefully and gently on Ronon's and he didn't flinch away. She spoke into the silence, her voice barely above a whisper and yet with great weight, the words conveying the depth of her empathy:_ _

__"Life is hard."_ _


	10. Chapter 10

John made his way carefully down the steep flight of stairs, his footwear not really suitable for the job in hand. It wouldn't matter, he thought, because it wasn't as if he was going to spend his day running up and down the stairs, or, in fact, running anywhere; he might manage a slow amble, perhaps, but his primary mission objective for the day was to find somewhere comfortable to do the whole 'rice' thing that Keller had drummed into him the day before. The compression was taken care of by the bandages, the ice by Lil, who had taken charge of the chemical ice packs and wouldn't let him forget to use them. So, the rest and the elevation... He doubted there were any beach chairs stored away at the Happy Helg, and there was certainly no pool to relax by, so improvisation would be required. 

John's thoughts had occupied him as far as the front door; it was another hot day and all four team members would be breakfasting _al fresco_. _Vacation reboot_ , he thought. _No more drama from here on in._ He paused on the threshold. Teyla and Ronon sat with their backs to him and Rodney opposite, so that John got the full benefit of Rodney's slowly-dawning look of unholy glee as he beheld his team leader's attire. The grin spread across Rodney's face, his eyes crinkled up and he sat back in his chair and folded his arms as if to spend some quality time fully appreciating the vision he beheld. He looked as if he were trying to think of a suitably witty verbal caption, but in the end, he went with:

"Surfing today, Sheppard?"

Teyla and Ronon both turned round. Ronon snorted a laugh and Teyla said, her voice shaking slightly, "They are very bright, John. And that t-shirt is very old!"

"Your shoes are gonna fall off," Ronon contributed.

John shrugged and smirked. "It's hot! Weather's not gonna change anytime soon so, why not?" He looked down at the blindingly multi-coloured surfing shorts and flip-flops and stuck his hand up inside his t-shirt to wiggle a finger out of a hole in the seam of one sleeve. "I'm not sure where this shirt came from. Mix-up in the laundry, maybe?"

He sat down next to Rodney, who yanked the back of the t-shirt out so that he could read the label.

"McKay! You're strangling me!"

"Women's size large. You're wearing a girl's t-shirt, Sheppard. I hope you haven't been carrying on with any of my scientists! Mix-up in the laundry, indeed..."

Rodney turned his attention back to his breakfast, while John briefly floundered for an indignant response, decided it wasn't worth it, and made his own selection from the items on the table. There were bread rolls, butter and honey and something which was probably yogurt with fruit in it. These were soon supplemented by a platter of fresh omelettes brought out by Lil, who slid one onto each of their plates and left the rest to be stared at covetously by Ronon and Rodney, who watched each other watching the omelettes with jealous eyes. It was the classic shootout set-up, John thought; the oppressive glare of the sun beating down on the dusty ground, the flicker of an eye, the twitch of a trigger finger. Who had the fastest fork in town? John decided he'd let them 'go for their guns', so to speak and then pull rank and take the lion's share for himself. Any second now... Teyla reached forward and picked up the platter; she gave everyone a fair share. They all muttered dutiful thanks, but it wasn't as much fun, John thought.

"You are welcome," she said, with a knowing expression. "How are your injuries today, John?"

"Okay, I guess," he replied, wondering if he could use a fork with his feet. His right arm especially throbbed and felt hot and swollen. "Kinda stiff."

"He means he's in agony," Rodney muttered into his omelette.

"No, I don't!" John protested, looking across at Ronon, who was frowning like a thundercloud.

"Did you see Boudicca yesterday?" he said, changing the subject. "Get the okay on Luke and Leia?"

"Yes, I did, and no, I didn't, respectively," said Rodney, grumpily. "She's already named them."

"Really? She told you through the old...?" He wiggled his fingers to indicate telepathy.

"Yes."

"And?"

"What names has she given the prissets, Rodney?" asked Teyla.

"Well," he said, putting down his fork. "Obviously there were no words involved, but the first impression I got was 'attacks with sharp teeth'. That was the girl. And then an image of the boy chasing his tail, so..."

"Sharpie and Chaser!" said John.

"Oh, come on!" Rodney protested. "A marker pen and a source of hangovers?"

"They're great names!" John said, enthusiastically.

"What d'you want to call 'em, McKay?" Ronon asked. John was glad to see a small gleam in his eyes and he met the gleam with a smirk.

"Okay, so, 'attacks with sharp teeth,' well, that's a vampire, isn't it? So, I thought, 'Lestat,' as one of the classier members of the vampire breed!"

John rolled his eyes, while Ronon and Teyla looked confused.

"Hm, well, I like it!" Rodney said, huffily.

John shook his head and scooped up the last forkful of his omelette. Ronon was making serious in-roads on the yogurt, and Rodney continued.

"Then, I equated tail-chasing with spinning, and further extrapolated that to," he paused, for greater effect, and then announced, proudly, "Centrifuge!"

The peaceful repast descended into chaos at that point; John choked on his omelette and coughed and gasped as Rodney thumped him on the back while simultaneously insisting that Centrifuge was a perfectly good name and an accurate interpretation of Boudicca's wishes. Through his watering eyes, John could see Ronon laughing so hard that he snorted yogurt out of his nose; Teyla let her face fall into her hands, her shoulders shaking.

"Alright, okay, let's just... leave the names issue alone for now, yeah?" said John eventually. "Plans for the day?" He looked at his three teammates enquiringly.

"I will spend the day making something from the canes I cut yesterday," said Teyla. "I hope I can remember how."

"Great!" said John. "That sounds... vacationy! Ronon?"

Ronon shrugged his shoulders. "Done enough running for a while. Be good to do something useful."

Lil had started clearing away the breakfast things, tutting at the various spillages.

"There's plenty of folk who could use an extra hand," she said. "Take Tayko and ride over to Fren's. If he's got nothing for you I daresay he'd spare young Madena to take you round to farms, find some work that needs doing."

"Cool," agreed Ronon.

"Rodney?"

"Well..." Rodney said consideringly. "I thought I might take it easy this morning, then maybe a light lunch, perhaps indoors if it's very hot. And then a nice long afternoon nap! This being a vacation, after all."

"Actually," said Lil hesitantly. "There's a little job needs doing and Tam could use some help."

"Oh," said Rodney, less cheerfully. "Yes. Of course."

"What are you going to do, Sheppard?" Rodney asked.

"John is coming with me to the kitchen, where the ice packs are waiting!" Lil said, firmly.

That sounded like a pretty attractive idea to John, but he did his best to convey bored resignation, so that his team would think he'd much rather be doing serious military-type things. None of them looked as if they'd bought the act.

oOo

Lil laid out the ice packs, wrapped in cloths, on the table so that John could ease the bruises on the undersides of his forearms, where he'd flung them up in his defence the day before. She had unwound his bandages, which were now too tight where the damaged tissues had swollen. The bruising was mottled purple, black and red and looked very sore.

"Better?" she said.

"Yeah, it helps," he replied.

"Good. I'll redo the bandages afterward."

"Thanks."

The kitchen doors were open, to try to get some air through, making the bunches of drying herbs sway, lazily. Tirren sat at the table, mending a sheet. Lil sat down next to her and started from the other end, restitching the hem where it had come loose.

"Hot again," remarked Tirren.

"Aren't summers always this hot here?" John asked.

"They have been for the last... oh, I don't know, five? Six years?" Lil answered. "We used to get a cool wind often and a bit more rain in the summer. The water in the well's as low as it's ever been and some of the farmers are saying it's so hot and dry, maybe they can grow grain now."

"More bread and cakes," said Tirren, eagerly.

"Last winter was pretty wet, when we were here," John said.

"Yes, mild and wet, where winters used to be colder."

"Mild? Seemed pretty cold to me! And then it snowed."

"Yes, it did, at last, so we held the Festival!"

"It's not on the same day every year?"

Lil smiled. "No! We don't bother with dates, here. We have the Festival when it snows and when everyone's ready. And you were here, so all the more reason." She bit off her thread and ran her fingers along the hem, searching for more loose areas. "And we'll have the Midsummer Festival soon, I suppose." Her needle became busy once more.

"More helg racing?"

She nodded. "More helg racing."

There was silence for a few minutes. Lil got up to check her bread; the heavy traga root and coarse grain loaves today. They'd risen as much as they were going to. She opened the oven and tested it with her hand, then slid the loaves in.

"Are there any lakes round here?" John asked, crinkling, as his arms shifted on the ice packs.

"Yes!" she replied. "I forget you've not really seen much apart from the forest and the moorland at the edge of the mountains."

"A few caves," he frowned.

"Yes, well," she agreed, not wanting to dwell on the less pleasant aspects of their last visit. "If you go past Fren's place, there's a fork in the road, and you follow it for a while, and where it slopes down you come to the wetlands. We go there sometimes to gather reeds, catch birds and so on, and, if you know what you're doing and where the land is, you can get to open water and catch fish."

"Or swim?"

"Yes, but, like I say, you have to know the land. There are places that look solid, but you'll sink right through! We can go there, if you like."

"Yeah, I'd like that."

Rodney came through the door, his hands in his pockets, looking smug.

"Is surf boy ready to come out and play?"

"Not yet," Lil laughed. "Have you finished?"

"Oh, yes!" Rodney said. He snapped his fingers. "Easy as that for a man of my cunning and ingenuity!"

"What've you been up to, McKay?"

"Hammocks! The honest landlord and the supercharged astrophysicist have improvised two hammocks, and set them up in the shade. The only two things lacking now are some cool drinks and perhaps...?" He looked appealingly at Lil.

"Cake?" she offered.

"Perfect!" said Rodney.

oOo

John stared into the candle flame, drowsily, watching it burn steadily, with only a slight flicker at the very tip. It had been a good day, he thought, for the whole team, and even if the bruises on his arms were developing into an array of lurid colours, he'd managed to stick to Keller's regime and he was sure that each day would see more improvement. He blinked and the image of the flame floated, blue-green on the red of his eyelids.

"You meditating, there, Sheppard?" asked Ronon.

"No, just relaxing."

"You've been relaxing all day!" said Rodney. "I'd have thought you'd be jumping out of your skin, champing at the bit and all kinds of other impatient things by now!"

John just shrugged and grunted in non-verbal contradiction. He felt something furry brush his leg and looked down to see Boudicca inserting herself beneath the table and lying down at or on their feet, which was well-timed, because his flip-flopped toes were getting cold in the evening air. Sharpie and Chaser, their names accepted grudgingly by Rodney, were leaping up to bat playfully at the insects attracted by the torches.

"Anyway, I've been making plans!" announced Rodney.

"Sleeping or eating next?" asked Ronon.

"Oh, ha, ha, Conan," Rodney responded. "I mean plans for our mission, amongst other things."

"We're still on vacation, Rodney," said John.

"Yes, yes, of course. But we'll get the go ahead in a few days. Won't we?"

John looked around at his team. They'd had a good day. Ronon had heaved some rocks, Teyla had made her basket-thing, Rodney had... done very little. They were getting there. But they all still had weight to make up and there were no overnight fixes when you'd been hit hard by a combination of physical and mental trauma.

"We need to get back out there, Sheppard," rumbled Ronon.

"I feel that my strength is returning," Teyla said.

John shook his head. "When we're ready," he said firmly.

"And we'll be ready in a few days!" said Rodney. "So, we should take a Jumper and do a high-altitude survey of the mountain range first, check for energy readings, the usual kind of thing. Then, if there's nothing obvious, we go in closer, investigate any route passable on foot."

"We're not walking there, Rodney," said John.

"No," said Rodney in his 'explaining to idiots' voice. "But if there's been some kind of Ancient outpost, settlement, whatever, there's bound to have been comings and goings and, therefore, any remains are likely to be near an accessible route."

"Fair enough," said John. "But we all need to be fit. We're not going to get the go ahead from Carter unless she's convinced we're all up to the job."

The rattle of cups heralded the arrival of Lil, a tray of tea held before her.

"Oh, come on, a quick look round the mountains to verify the truth of a children's story? We'll be in and out and back in time for tea. With cake."

"Don't jinx it, McKay!" John growled.

"What shall we do tomorrow?" asked Teyla, heading off Rodney's riposte.

"What do you say to a trip to the lakes?" asked Lil.


	11. Chapter 11

"Dry as tinder, that undergrowth," said Rodney. "One spark and the whole lot'll go up. Whoosh!"

"We're not going to be lighting any fires, McKay!"

"It is certainly very dry," Teyla said.

They had set out early, when the night's chill remained in the air and the sun was just beginning to lighten the sky; soft, hooting bird-calls had followed them as the cart rattled and rumbled its way along the dim forest track. Now, though, the day felt furnace-hot and the trees, Teyla thought, had that late-summer quality, the leaves a dark green with an almost leathery texture. Teyla had noticed changes even in the few days that she had been observing the nature of this world; the heat had bleached grasses a brittle white and the nearly-ripe berries were small and looked hard. She had taken a stroll in the forest the previous day to find the little stream dried up; as she had approached, she had startled a pair of sleek furrens, trying to drink from the muddy remains of a pool. They had glared at her with reproachful eyes and then scampered away.

"Not far now," said Lil, turning round. Tirren sat beside her on the driving seat, but the team had squeezed themselves into the bed of the woodcart, their knees drawn up before them so that they could all fit in. Behind them rumbled another cart, Grella driving, the three children her passengers, the criss-crossed bands of fabric on her chest indicating Penda's presence on her mother's back. Every so often, a head would bob up from the back of the cart, a small hand would wave and, each time, the team would wave back; even Rodney, Teyla noted.

The trees continued on their left, while on the right the view broadened out into a vista of far horizons and swaying reeds. Teyla looked for a glimpse of the shifting ripple of open water or the glint of sunlight on wavelets. She saw reeds, yellowed and dry, and she heard the rattle of their hollow stalks as they moved in the light breeze; she saw dull brown flats of dried mud, patterned with the zig-zag cracks and splits of drought. The land was dry, a parched yellow-brown landscape, arid and lifeless. 

Lil pulled up the cart and Grella also drew her team to a halt. Both seemed at a loss for words. John stood up, his hand shading his eyes against the sun, squinting into the distance. Ronon jumped down and then further down, off the road and in amongst the reeds, crouching and feeling the dirt beneath him.

"Be careful, Ronon! It might not be solid!" Teyla called.

He stood up and stamped one foot up and down. 

"Solid as rock," he said, and snapped off one of the reeds and crushed some of it in his hands. It crumbled to pieces and trailed out of his palm, the warm breeze picking up the feathery flakes and taking them away over the crusted surface.

"I can't believe it!" breathed Lil. She sounded stunned.

One of the children began to cry and Grella said, "Let's just drive on, Lil. It can't all be dried out."

Lil flicked the reins and Tayko plodded on. Ronon stayed walking by the cart, occasionally jumping down the bank to test the ground.

"This place is dead," he said. "No bugs, no birds."

The clap of disturbed wings gave the lie to this statement, as a long-legged wading bird broke cover from the reeds and flew up, its cry carrying eerily over the desolate scene.

"Hardly any," Ronon admitted.

Gradually, however, as the land fell, the vegetation began to take on hints of green, and when Ronon jumped down the bank to check the ground once more, he skidded and flailed his arms for balance, then grinned up at them, ruefully.

"Getting wetter," he said.

Then, Teyla could smell the wetlands as they should have been; a rich, moist, earthiness, with the sweet hint of rotting vegetation, the slightly piney scent of growing reeds and a suggestion of that indefinable freshness of open water. And at last, there was a glimmer of the rippling surface between waving green stems, and Lil drove a little further and then stopped where the road was bordered by a shallow grassy bank, shaded by a few small trees.

"This'll do," she said.

oOo

"So, what do you think, McKay?" asked John, taking another unidentifiable, but undeniably tasty sandwich. "Climate change?"

"Well, yes," said Rodney, his hand hesitating between cake and cheese. "But this doesn't seem like a natural fluctuation to me; it's too sudden. Climates change slowly. Although, I could be wrong. I'm no 'let's take a wild guess' meteorologist."

"Meteorologists? Are they another of the sciences you relegate to 'voodoo arts', Rodney?"

"Not even that," he replied. "They might as well read the entrails of a sheep to predict the weather. Too many variables!"

"Perhaps we can look at the patterns of the weather when we carry out our aerial survey," suggested Teyla.

"Yeah, sure, we can take a quick loop around the planet," said John. He looked at Lil and Grella, standing in the shallow water, their skirts kilted up above their knees, both keeping a sharp eye on the children, who were splashing and shrieking and kicking up the water. Tirren crouched at the water's edge, holding Penda and letting the water tickle her toes. "These folks could be in trouble if they don't get rain soon."

Something flew through the air and a wet splat of mud landed on Ronon's arm, to run slowly down and drip onto his pants. Maddy stood, knee-deep in the lake, one hand on her hip, the other dripping with another potential missile, grinning impishly. Ronon regarded her coolly. The grin faltered. Then he erupted with a roar, stormed down the bank and launched himself, fully clothed, into the water.

"He really is a barbarian," said Rodney.

"C'mon, McKay," said John. "It looks like fun. I'm going in."

"You'll get your bandages wet."

John shrugged. "Don't think I need 'em any more." He kicked off his flip-flops, pulled off his t-shirt and threw it down, then ran into the water, scooping up Ellet and lifting her high into the air, her laughter ringing out with innocent joy.

oOo

Later, when the children and Ronon were drying off, stretched out on the grass in the sun, and Rodney and Teyla were mooching idly in the shallows, John swam out to the deeper water, feeling a slight ache in his bruised muscles, but nothing that prevented him from setting up a steady stroke, arm-over-arm, until he turned and looked back at the bank, treading water. _A peaceful scene on a peaceful day_ , he thought, and was thankful for the gift of this time he and his team had, to heal body and mind and to enjoy the company of friends. He stretched back and lay on the surface of the lake, sculling gently with his hands, and looked up at the blue sky. Blue, unbroken blue, from horizon to horizon. John imagined himself flying upward, higher and higher until the blue darkened to indigo in the upper atmosphere and then transformed into the jewelled black of a high orbit. What would he see from such a position? Circling the globe, would he see the reason for the change in the weather patterns? Was it just the natural, inevitable heating of the worldwide system, that could mean an end to the forest-dwellers' way of life? And what would they find in the mountains? A dripping cave wherein had once dwelt a card-carrying, cauldron-toting, spell-weaving witch? Or perhaps a ZPM-laden, genuine Ancient outpost. John knew that no matter what secrets the mountains held, he and his team would track them down.

He stopped his idle drift, turned his body, and set off, with powerful strokes, back to his team, back to his friends.

End


End file.
